NAMELESS PAIN.

I should be happy with my lot: A wife and mother—is it not Enough for me to be content? What other blessing could be sent?

A quiet house, and homely ways, That make each day like other days; I only see Time's shadow now Darken the hair on baby's brow!

No world's work ever comes to me, No beggar brings his misery; I have no power, no healing art With bruisèd soul or broken heart.

I read the poets of the age, 'Tis lotus-eating in a cage; I study Art, but Art is dead To one who clamors to be fed

With milk from Nature's rugged breast, Who longs for Labor's lusty rest. O foolish wish! I still should pine If any other lot were mine.