Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, 1856-02-07
THE MOTHERS MISSION,
By L. VIRGINIA FRENCH.

bi L. 'lAGlNlA fhENSh'
A child of beauty rare
Stood on the marble threshold oil alone.
Deep azure was his eye, and gold his hair,
And musical his tone.
A slender crystal pipe he held aloft,
Though which the sunbeam sparkled bright anu sol
With rich prismatic hue,
Then lightly laughed the boy, so young and far,
And forth upon the summers morning air,
His shining bubbles blew.
''Mamma mamma !" he cries;
Hisdimpled fingers hold q crimson stain,
His shattered pipe upon the msrblelies,
Like drops of summer rain!
With hurrying feet his mothers side he seeks,
The big tears coursing down his pallid cheeks,
"Oh, mamma, see what makes
My fingers hurt? See how the red blood pours,
Oh! take me up, and fold my hand in yours, "
Feel, mamma, how it aches!"
The star-eyed evening wove
Her mantle of the gold and crimson cloud,
When by the riverside, and through the grove,
Ayouth and maiden proud,
Came slowly straying on. Like jewel-showers
Through which in smiling Aprips hopeful hours
The amber sunlight shone,
His passion words fell fast, he seemed to pray
That she would name the hour when he might say
"My beautiful, my own"
Gray twilight closed. The noon
Looked wan amid her clouds as tho she felt
That sorrow which to mortals come 30 soon.
The youth had lowly knelt
Down by his mothers side, his bright young head
Was pillowed on her bosom, and he said,
"Oh! mother, sorrow wakes
Too early in my soul,-where shall it rest?
Oh |! take my cast-off heart to thy warm breast,
Feel, mother, how it aches"
Out from the brassy sky
Upon the dusty city's toiling mart
The noontide sun looked down with piercing eye,
And on her secret heart
Where, goading on host of Mammon's slaves,
Forgetful of his early loves sweet graves,
In the wild hunt for gold,-
Forgetting God in sordid, craving quest;
A man in his meridian stood possessed
OF treasures untold.
There Is an humble street
Where stands modest cottage; all between
Grow tall chrysanthemums and asters sweet
With shrubs of evergreen.
Here comes the bankrupt worldling now to meet
His mothers plying eye: low at her feet
His shattered being shakes;
"All's lost, my mother-ruined now,
Oh press your cooling hand on my burning brow,
And feel, how sad it aches!"
The idol of the crowd
One stood, with Autumn's flush upon his soul,
Upbreaking from his heart thousand proud
Tumultuous throbbings roll;
And be has left behind him in the race
Of hot Ambition for the pride ofplace
The morning land ofyouth,
The heights of honor, manhood's noble dover,
And struggling on, still for pomp md power,
The stainless shores Of Truth
Deep in his dungeon cell,
The traitor prone upon the ainty floor,
Seemed counting Ger the moments as they fell,
He muttered "Nevermore
Shall morning come to cheer my fearful doom,
No little ray Of hope to pierce the gloom
In which my spirit quakes:
Mother! forgive but she is dead ad,-thank God
She cannot feel beneath the graveyard sod,
How this wrung spirit aches -
No, no! there's not an hour
In which some hardened spirit doth not turn
Back like the chalice Of the sungods fower,)
To that 'eraowing urn,
mothers love, the purest, best and first
That ever on the pilgrims pathway burst.
Oh! happy children take
And deeply drink, for never will the CLEANS
Of such fountain open on your dreams,
Until you sleep in death and by the streams
Of Paradise awake!
Forest Home, 1856.