XXI.

Then Jane cried out in sudden glee,
“Oh, what a pretty grave is there!
It would be just a bed for me,
With room enough, and none to spare.”

XXII.

The father's hand let fall the spade,
His cheek grew pale, he heaved a groan;
And when the children's graves he made,
Thenceforth he always worked alone.

XXIII.

These hours, and others more, when he
In fields was laboring far away,
Dear Jane beside her mother's knee
Would oftener pass than she would play.

XXIV.

The child and woman thus akin,
Two shapes of earth's obscurest throng,
Had love as true, both hearts within,
As e'er was told in lofty song.

XXV.

I know not—'twas not said of yore—
But still to me, a man, it seems
That motherhood is something more
Than e'en a father's fondness deems.

XXVI.

The teeming breast has thrills, 'tis plain,
More deep than e'er its partner knew,
A mystery of hopeful pain,
That makes a greater blessing due.

XXVII.

And thus, though far in years apart,
To them belonged one will alone;
The youthful and the elder heart
To one true heart had grown.

XXVIII.

The mother bore an humble mind,
Unskilled in aught that's known to few,
Save this, which not in all we find,
A zeal to practise all she knew.

XXIX.

And Mary from her bosom's core
Of many things could speak to Jane,
That, never finding voice before,
Had mutely dwelt, but not in vain.

XXX.

Of change and trial here on earth,
Of hopes by which we conquer sins,
And of the spirit's better birth
Than that which first our life begins.