In all the wide world there is not another Whose name is so dear as the sweet name of mother. The babe’s tiny head finds it’s most perfect rest, When pillowed from harm on the fair mother breast; The youth, from all sorrow, temptation and care, Seeks the warm mother heart and finds comfort there; The woman, whose virtues are whispered above, Will daily thank God for the dear “mother love;” The man, be he lover, or husband, or brother, Will ever hold sacred the love of his mother. Tho’ the years may have turned her tresses to gray, And the rose from her cheek may have faded away, Tho’ her step, once so light, may have feebled with age, And her eyes may have grown too dim for the page, Tho’ the hand that was once so dainty and fair, May have changed with the seasons of toiling and care, Tho’ the voice that to youth and it’s freedom belongs, May have lost all its sweetness for lullaby songs, Yet the years that shall make the dear mother grow old, Will but add to her nature a blessing untold;— Tho’ they rob her of youth, she retains, as a prize, A love more mature and a counsel more wise. Tho’ her life lose it’s sunshine and burdens oppress, Yet the love of the mother will never be less; Tho’ her children may wander away from the fold, And the world shuts them out in the darkness and cold, Tho’ their friends may prove faithless and sin may allure, Yet of mother’s true love they can ever be sure. Tho’ to far away lands they may wilfully roam, The fond mother’s prayer will be guiding them home. If they climb to the height of honor and fame, They should whisper, in credit, the dear mother name. Her love inspires all that is noble and good, And Purity reigneth o’er sweet mother-hood. Tho’ the great word applaud, the praise of another Is nothing compared with the praises of mother. The earth home is dreary, when she is away, Her presence adds sunshine to each changing day, And Heaven, in it’s glory, will be the more fair, When the spirit of mother shall find entrance there.