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VI.
THE MOTHER'S RETURN.
BY THE SAME.
A month, sweet Little-ones, is passed
Since your dear Mother went away,—
And she to-morrow will return;
To-morrow is the happy day.
O blessed tidings! thought of joy!
The eldest heard with steady glee;
Silent he stood; then laughed amain,—
And shouted, "Mother come to me!"
Louder and louder did he shout
With witless hope to bring her near;
"Nay, patience! patience, little Boy!
Your tender Mother cannot hear."
I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through;—
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,
But he submits; what can he do?
