BEING HIS MOTHER.

Being his mother—when he goes away I would not hold him overlong, and so Sometimes my yielding sight of him grows O So quick of tears, I joy he did not stay To catch the faintest rumor of them! Nay, Leave always his eyes clear and glad, although Mine own, dear Lord, do fill to overflow; Let his remembered features, as I pray, Smile ever on me! Ah! what stress of love Thou givest me to guard with Thee thiswise: Its fullest speech ever to be denied Mine own—being his mother! All thereof Thou knowest only, looking from the skies As when not Christ alone was crucified.