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Title: A Mother's Advice
Author: J. C. Manning [
More Titles by Manning]
Mother. Clarence, my darling boy,
The world to which thou yearn'st is grey with crime;
And glittering Vice will bask before thy face,
As serpents lie in sedgy, o'ergrown grass,
In glossy beauty, whilst Life's potent glance
Will thrall thy soul as with a spirit-spell:
But hold thy heart, a chalice for the Good
And Beautiful to crush, with pearly hands,
The mellow draught which purifies the thought,
And lights the soul. Thirst after knowledge, child.
Thy face shall shine, then, brightly as a king's,
As did the prophets' in the olden time
When holding converse with the living God.
As rain-drops falling from the sky above
Upon the mountain-peak remain not there,
But hasten down to voice the simple rill,
So knowledge, born of God, should be attained
By peasant as by peer--by king or slave.
Have faith--large faith. Some of life's mightiest great
Have peered out, like the moon from frowning hills,
Then ventured forth, and walkt their splendour'd night
In pale, cold majesty; while some have dasht
On sun-steeds through the ocean of the world,
As comets plough the shoreless sea of stars,
Blinding old Earth with wreaths of splendid foam
And sparkling sprays: others have strode the world
Like a Colossus, and the glory-light
That streamed up from the far, far end of time,
Hath smote their lofty brows, and glinted down
Upon the world they shadowed: some have lived
And cleft their times with such a whistling swoop
That plodding minds seemed reeling 'tother way--
Men who had suffering-purified their souls
To angel rarity, that they might scan,
Like old Elijah, e'en the throne of God,
And live.
Clarence. Thy voice doth marshal on my soul
To battle, and to dream of noble things.
Thy golden words I'll graft upon my heart
Like blossoms wedded to the granite rock.
But, Mother, weep not! Why should April tears
Come with the sunshine of thy voice?
Mother. Bless thee,
God bless thee, Clarence! May thy sorrows be
Light and evanescent as vapoury wreaths
That fleck the Summer blue. My dreams shall wing
Their way to thee, as moonbeams pierce the night.
And I will send my soul up in a cloud
Of thought to Heav'n, wreathed with a Mother's prayer,
For thee. Farewell--and be thou blest.
[The end]
J. C. Manning's poem: Mother's Advice
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