Of me whom once you bore,
Seems still the brave reward that once it seemed of yore;
Though as all passes, day and night,
The seasons and the years,
From you, O mother, this delight,
This also disappears
Some profit yet survives of all your pangs and tears.
The child, the seed, the grain of corn, The acorn on the hill, Each for some separate end is born In season fit, and still
Each must in strength arise to work the Almighty will.
So from the hearth the children flee, By that Almighty hand Austerely led ; so one by sea Goes forth, and one by land;
Nor aught of all men's sons escapes from that com- mand.
So from the sally each obeys The unseen Almighty nod; So till the ending all their ways Blind-folded loth have trod:
Nor knew their task at all, but were the tools of God.
And as the fervent smith of yore Beat out the glowing blade, Nor wielded in the front of war
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