Drawn by Alpheus ColeTHE MOTHERBY TIMOTHY COLE
Drawn by Alpheus Cole
Drawn by Alpheus Cole
BY TIMOTHY COLE
DEAR solacer and goddess of the hearth,O mother! whose enfolding arms and breastCradle the infant world from dawn’s fair birthTo the sun’s ripening noon with loving girth;How oft, in dreaming, of thy sheltering rest,Whose ingle-glow now kindles to new worthOur 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.
DEAR solacer and goddess of the hearth,O mother! whose enfolding arms and breastCradle the infant world from dawn’s fair birthTo the sun’s ripening noon with loving girth;How oft, in dreaming, of thy sheltering rest,Whose ingle-glow now kindles to new worthOur 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.
DEAR solacer and goddess of the hearth,O mother! whose enfolding arms and breastCradle the infant world from dawn’s fair birthTo the sun’s ripening noon with loving girth;How oft, in dreaming, of thy sheltering rest,Whose ingle-glow now kindles to new worthOur 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.
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.