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"I HEAR thee speak of a better land; Thou callest its children a happy band: Mother! O where is that radiant shore? May we not seek it and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle boughs ?"

"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,

And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?" "Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it far away in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold, Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand! Is it there, sweet mother! that better land?" "Not there, not there, my child?”

Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair; Sorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom :For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, It is there, it is there, my child !” HEMANS.



THERE is a reaper, whose name is Death,
And with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he; "Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet

to me

I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves;

It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord hath need of these flowerets gay," The reaper said and smiled;

"Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where once he was a child.


They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,

And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear.

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And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;

She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

O! not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The reaper came that day;
'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away!



HAST thou sounded the depths of yonder sea,
And counted the sands that under it be?
Hast thou measured the heights of the heavens

Then mayest thou mete out a mother's love.

Hast thou talked with the blessed of leading on To the throne of God some wandering son? Hast thou witnessed the angels' bright employ? Then mayest thou speak of a mother's joy.

Evening and morn hast thou watched the bee Go forth on her errands of industry?

The bee for herself hath gathered and toiled, But the mother's cares are all for her child.

Hast thou gone with the traveller thought afar,
From pole to pole, from star to star?
Thou hast but on ocean, earth or sea,
The heart of a mother has gone with thee.

There is not a grand inspiring thought,
There is not a truth by wisdom taught,
There is not a feeling pure and high,
That may not be read in a mother's eye.

And ever since earth began, that look
Has been to the wise an open book,
To win them back, from the love they prize,
To the holier love that edifies.

There are teachings on earth, and sky, and air,
The heavens the glory of God declare!
But louder than voice beneath, above,
He is heard to speak through a Mother's Love.

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