Now other hands take up that mother's task.
Another breast nurses that sweet young child
With growing love; for who can nurse a child,
Feel its warm breath, and little dimpled hands,
Kiss its soft lips, look in its laughing eyes,
Hear its low-cooing love-notes soft and sweet,
And not feel something of that miracle,
A mother's love--so old yet ever new,
Stronger than death, bravest among the brave,
Gentle as brave, watchful both night and day,
That never changes, never tires nor sleeps.
Whence comes this wondrous and undying love?
Whence can it come, unless it comes from heaven,
Whose life is love--eternal, perfect love!

From babe to boy, from boy to youth he grew,
But more in grace and knowledge than in years.
At play his joyous laugh rang loud and clear,
His foot was fleetest in all boyish games,
And strong his arm, and steady nerve and eye,
To whirl the quoit and send the arrow home;
Yet seeming oft to strive, he'd check his speed
And miss his mark to let a comrade win.
In fullness of young life he climbed the cliffs
Where human foot had never trod before.
He led the chase, but when soft-eyed gazelles
Or bounding deer, or any harmless thing,
Came in the range of his unerring dart,
He let them pass; for why, thought he, should men
In wantonness make war on innocence?