The weekly Columbian. [volume] (Columbia, Tuolumne Co., Cal.) 1856-1???, 1856-06-28
el.y Neither VIII Love Ne"

So she WILL little one. Toss those sunny
curls from your brow, and let the light Of child
ISL joy beam in your clear blue eyes. What
matters it to you, though the world looks cold
~ upon you--though, with its stupid eyes and
dull perceptions. it sees nothing beautiful in
that childish form. that happy face and those
azure eyes, in whose depths the siarfires of i'm
mortality are already blazing? What though
1t jostles you rudely and wonders ''why such
little troubles were created:' There is one
whose loving hear. will cherish you--upon
whose broad, soft bosom you may weep away
all the troubles that are swelling yoHr little
leart.
My mother will love me-
What heart grows not warmer. tllrobs not
with q happier pusation, as the chld's words
come home to him? Man Of the World. whose
giant intellect has never yet been dedicated TO
God and suffering Humanity, who has selfshly
aud wckenly walked over bleeding hearts and
crushed hopes up to the pinnacle of Wealth and
Power, comes there not, in the silent time when
the heart lifts the ''innor veil and wanders
aArough the hidden chambers comes there not
q memory over the Swallowed waste of years, OF
fragile form bending over you. cloud OF
tresses falling softly around YOU large spiritual
brown eyes looking down into yours and a voice
which haunts you. sleeping or waking. whisper
lag Keep your heart pure and unsuliel from
the world, my boy?' The laurel wreath is an
iron fetter upon your brow. and all those heaps
OF boarded gold were worthless mi, ut you but
once again pillow yonr aching head upon that
&rVc loving and faithful heart.
Weary and repenting Magdalen, when your
erring feet wandered away from the old hearth
stone, did you leave mother watching through
the darkness 10 catch the first echoes Of your
returning steps? Where is she now? Above
the crushed and bleeding heart-ahove the
wreck Of hope and love-aboye the LACK and
ever darkening cloud of Despair is there not
oac CLEAN of light? A mothers deathless love
shining over you from the distance like a star
of glory. Is there not one heart to which you
can return like weary, wounded dove to the
ark. Can you not pillow your head above its
calm, regular pulsations, and wash away your
guilt in tears of penitence?
MY mother will love me- SO she will !.
Sad it is for those who listen in vain for the
voice which is hushed and silent in the grave
who weep bitter tears when the rude storms of
life buffet them, and tempests gather darkly
above then,-When friends are false and the
iisst pure love of the heart has been throw n
back to them as worthless-whcn they long in
vain for the one true heart upon they wept away
the griefs of childhood.
My mother will love me- Aye, The sands
of Time are drifting around us. Soon we, too,
shall lie down underneath them-happy may
we be if a mothers love goes with us down to
the Ozark Valley" where she may give US into
the care of the Great Heart, which is tenderer
even than hers. Happy may we be if there is
one who will plant the rose-tree upon our grave
who will think of us kindly and reminder not
our faults because she loved us. J. T. G.