  (To E. A. G.) Behold! the world's inheritance, The treasure-trove of happy homes; Whereby the poorest hut becomes A fairy-palace of romance. A cradle is the mother's shrine: Two lamps o'erhang it—her sweet eyes, Whose love-light falls, Madonna-wise, On sleeping infancy divine. Madonna-wise, her heart discerns, And like a fragrant censer burns, O'ershadowed by an angel's wing. Her brooding motherhood is strong; A trembling joy her bosom stirs, Her thoughts are white-robed worshippers, 'Magnificat' is all her song. 'Mid angels whispering 'all-hails' The waking moment she awaits, The opening of two pearly gates, The lifting of two silken veils. Ah! then, what words can tell the bliss, The rapture of the fond embrace, When mother's lips on baby's face, Feast and are feasted with a kiss? And who can tell of hands and feet The dimpled wonders, hidden charms, The dainty curves of legs and arms, So sweet and soft, so soft and sweet? This is the world's possession still, The treasure-trove of wedded hearts, Whereby a Father's love imparts His joy, their gladness to fulfil. Tyntesfield: 1884. |
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