The Dove, On Silver Pinions, Winged Her

There Is A Calm For Those Who Weep, A Rest For Weary Pilgrims Found, They Softly Lie And Sweetly Sleep Low In The Ground.

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.

Bliss In Possession Will Not Last; Remembered Joys Are Never Past.

Tis Human Actions Paint The Chart Of Time.

Night Is The Time To Weep,to Wet With Unseen Tearsthose Graves Of Memory Where Sleepthe Joys Of Other Years.