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282 The old face of the mother of many children! Whist! I am fully content.

Lulled and late is the smoke of the First Day
 * morning,

It hangs low over the rows of trees by the fences, It hangs thin by the sassafras, the wild-cherry, and
 * the cat-brier under them.

I saw the rich ladies in full dress at the soiree, I heard what the singers were singing so long, Heard who sprang in crimson youth from the white
 * froth and the water-blue.

Behold a woman! She looks out from her quaker cap—her face is
 * clearer and more beautiful than the sky.

She sits in an arm-chair, under the shaded porch of
 * the farm-house,

The sun just shines on her old white head.

Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen. Her grand-sons raised the flax, and her grand-daughters
 * spun it with the distaff and the
 * wheel.

The melodious character of the earth, The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go, and
 * does not wish to go.

The justified mother of men.