VIII.

_THE MOTHER'S EPISTLE._

Sweet daughter, leave thy tasks and toys, Throw idle thoughts aside, And hearken to a mother's voice, That would thy footsteps guide; Though far across the rolling seas, Beyond the mountains blue, She sends her counsels on the breeze, And wafts her blessings too.

To guard thy voyage o'er life's wave, To guide thy bark aright, To snatch thee from an early grave, And gild thy way with light, Thy mother calls thee to her side, And takes thee on her knee, In spite of oceans that divide, And thus addresses thee: