THE MOTHER

DEAR solacer and goddess of the hearth, O mother! whose enfolding arms and breast Cradle the infant world from dawn’s fair birth To the sun’s ripening noon with loving girth; How oft, in dreaming, of thy sheltering rest, Whose ingle-glow now kindles to new worth Our souls, we see thy phantom figure blest, Still ministrant, in light and beauty dressed. Where light is, thitherward the spirit tends: Mankind were yet within the womb of night, From joy imprison’d save for thy sweet might, Save for the flame thy love forever lends. While beacon-like thy fire throws its spark, We shall not fear, though all the world grow dark.