To form and fit a soul for Heaven.

What though you’ve learned of envy’s wiles,

The slanderous tongue, which oft beguiles?

The sweetest fruit on bush and trees,

Is culled and plucked by birds and bees.

Although you’ve traced the landscape fair,

And sought for knowledge rich and rare,

Gone to the depth of hidden ore,

That richest mine you might explore,

Lines “To my Mother,” more I prize

Than all the paintings ’neath the skies;

And they will ever bring to me,

Dear child, sweet memories of thee.

Although I prize the painter’s art,

Yet more th’ effusions of the heart;

Kind feelings, sympathy and love,

All arts and wealth I prize above.

Since then these trials but refine,

Bring out deep caverns’ hidden mine,

Resign all to that power on high,

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