She, godlike in her womanhood, will fare She loves the sacred hearth: she will defend Whatever may have entered to defile. I see her in the evening by the fire, And in her eyes, illumined from the pile Of blazing logs, a motherly desire Glows like the moulded passion of a rose; Beautiful is her presence in the bower: Her spirit is the spirit of repose. Mankind shall hold her motherhood in awe: Woman is she indeed, and not of those That he with sacramental gold must draw He holds her by a spiritual right. With diamond and with pearl he need not sue; Nor will she deck herself for his delight: Beauty is the adornment of the true. She shall possess for ornament and gem A flower, the glowworm, or the drop of dew: More innocently fair than all of them, It will not even shame her if she make A coronal of stars her diadem. Though she is but a vision, I can take Courage from her. I feel her arrowy beam Already, for her spirit is awake, And passes down the future like a gleam,→→ Harold Monro (1879 A Portrait THE SHEPHERDESS SHE walks the lady of my delight A shepherdess of sheep. L Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep. She feeds them on the fragrant height, And folds them in for sleep. She roams maternal hills and bright, The chastest stars may peep. She holds her little thoughts in sight, She walks-the lady of my delight- A shepherdess of sheep. Alice Meynell [1853 A PORTRAIT MOTHER and maid and soldier, bearing best Clothe beauty carefully in disarray, Armored in smiles, a motley Britomart Her lance is high adventure, tipped with scorn; Blooms the unchanging Rose of all the World. *393 THE WIFE THE little Dreams of Maidenhood I put them all away As tenderly as mother would The toys of yesterday, When little children grow to men Too over-wise for play. The little dreams I put aside I loved them every one, And yet since moon-blown buds must hide I close them wistfully away O little Dreams of Maidenhood- If some day in an idle mood I, searching unaware Through some closed corner of my heart, Should laugh to find you there. Theodosia Garrison [1874 TRUSTY, DUSKY, VIVID, TRUE" TRUSTY, dusky, vivid, true, With eyes of gold and bramble-dew, Steel true and blade straight The great Artificer made my mate. Honor, anger, valor, fire, A love that life could never tire, Teacher, tender comrade, wife, Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894] The Voice 395 THE SHRINE THERE is a shrine whose golden gate Though millions have its pavement trod; 'Tis compassed with the dust and toil Upon the whiteness of its wall, Without, the world is tired and old, But, once within the enchanted door, I enter-all is simply fair, Nor incense-clouds, nor carven throne; But in the fragrant morning air A gentle lady sits alone; My mother-ah! whom should I see Within, save ever only thee? Digby Mackworth Dolben [1848-1867] THE VOICE As I went down the hill I heard The laughter of the countryside; With new emotion, like a bride. I scarce had left the grassy lane, When something made me catch my breath: A woman called, and called again, Elizabeth! Elizabeth! It was my mother's name. A part Of wounded memory sprang to tears, Shook in the wind of happier years. That once was sun and moon for me; To touch me almost-with thy hand, Elizabeth! Elizabeth! Norman Gale [1862 MOTHER I HAVE praised many loved ones in my song, And yet I stand Before her shrine, to whom all things belong, Perhaps the ripening future holds a time For things unsaid; Not now; men do not celebrate in rhyme Their daily bread. Theresa Helburn [1888 AD MATREM OFT in the after days, when thou and I |