All my maternal instincts seemed to rise, And clamor for their rights, while my wet eyes, Rained tears upon the silken tress of hair. It was the mother in me now did speak, Moaning, like Rachel, that her babes were not, And crying out against her barren lot. Ere Unto her wond'ring, untaught mind unfolds The myst'ry that is half divine, half human, Of life and birth, the love of unborn souls Within her, and the mother-yearning creeps Through her warm heart, and stirs its hidden deeps, And grows and strengthens with each riper year. Twas weak to mourn for what I had resigned, With the deliberate purpose of my mind, To my sweet friend. Relinquishing my love, I gave my dearest hope of joy to her.
Work is the salve that heals the wounded heart.
And if I failed to climb the dizzy height, To reach some point of excellence in art. E'en as the Maker held earth incomplete, Till man was formed, and placed upon the sod, The perfect, living image of his God, All landscape scenes were lacking in my sight, Wherein the human figure had no part. All hues of beauty mingle. So I brought Enthusiasm in abundance, thought, Much study, and some talent day by day, To help me in my efforts to portray The wondrous power, majesty and grace Stamped on some form, or looking from some face. This is not Genius.