Prayer Moves The Arm Which Moves The

Dark-green And Gemm'd With Flowers Of Snow, With Close Uncrowded Branches Spread Not Proudly High, Nor Meanly Low, A Graceful Myrtle Rear'd Its Head.

Fairest And Best Adorned Is She Whose Clothing Is Humility.

Yet Nightly Pitch My Moving Tent, A Day's March Nearer Home.

Beyond This Vale Of Tears There Is A Life Above. Unmeasured By The Flight Of Years; And All That Life Is Love.

A Mother's Love — How Sweet The Name! What Is A Mother's Love? — A Noble, Pure And Tender Flame, Enkindled From Above, To Bless A Heart Of Earthly Mould; The Warmest Love That Can Grow Cold; This Is A Mother's Love.