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    THAT GLOVE.   Table of Contents     THE OPIUM-EATER.

Tucker, Mary E.



HOW can I give thee up, my child, my dearest,
earliest born,
While fond hopes are 'round thee clustered, like
bright clouds o'er morning's dawn?
No, I will not leave thee, darling; thou at least
shall never say
That no tender hand did guide thee through the
cares of childhood's day.

My child! when first thy mother heard thy feeble,
first-born wail,
Love's tide came rushing through the heart, I
thought encased in mail.
For the few years of my young life had been scenes
of mirth and woe,
For I grasped the pleasures, darling, grasped them,
era I let them go!

Even the brightest days of summer have their sun
shine and their showers;
And the piercing thorn will wound as, as we black
the fairest flowers;
But the perfume of the flowers makes as glory in
the pain,
And exulting in the sunshine, we forget the Chilling

I know 'twould break my aching heart to leave
thee, precious one!
How can they brand me with a curse--what have
I ever done?
I know that I have never sent a sister down to
By casting blots of foulest sin upon a snow-white

Have charity, have charity, my child, for every sin--
For the sore temptation, darling, may all-powerful
have been;
And always lend a helping hand to those who
chance to fall;
Forgive, forget, be ready to obey your Saviour's

Learn, learn, my child, and ne'er forget, learn
while thou art still young,
That he will have the truest friends, who bridleth
his tongue.
Speak well of all, if aught you know of evil, or
of ill;
Deep in thy bosom let it rest, and keep the scandal

My baby, should you ever choose a partner for
this life,
Oh, darling, ever strive to be a fond, devoted wife;
And never let thy husband's name be spoken but
in praise;
For some will, if you let them, sadly misconstrue
his ways.

Seek not happiness in pleasure, for the dregs of
every cup
Are so bitter, darling, bitter, as we quaff the
latest sup!
And never seek, my child, to win the laurel wreath
of fame,
Unless thou hast a heart to bear the world's taunts,
even shame.

Kind, noble, generous, they will give thy sister to
me, dear:
But I must leave thee, child, sad seek a home
away from here.
Ah! I defy them to the last; they shall not part
us, child
And thy mother's hand shall rear their--thee,
put and undefiled!

May the fond prayers of thy mother prove a love-
protecting shield
From each sorrow, and each harrowing care, that
life doth ever yield.

And may the hand of love, my child, pluck thorns
from thy bright flowers;
And may'st thou find a home at last in heaven's
celestial bowers.

    THAT GLOVE.   Table of Contents     THE OPIUM-EATER.