LET us not scorn the Mother Earth from whom we all proceed:
The garden planted by our Lord with vivifying seed;
Whose various growth the Angels viewed with wonder lighted eyes.
And in whose bowers linger yet stray gleams of Paradise.
The pure, fresh, germinating earth that once enraptured stood,
And blush’d to loveliness when God “looked” and pronounced her “good,”
Then, drawing round her thrilling form a drapery of green,
Rolled meekly on her destined course, the sister orbs between,
And joining with the morning stars in joyful harmony,
Bid all her hills and vales proclaim Creation’s Jubilee.
Nay, scorn her not, though once she swerved with shame averted face,
When on her breast the serpent-fang had left its deadly trace:
Redemption came the wound to heal, the drooping head to raise.
And on the Sun of Righteousness she fixes still her gaze.
Her dust our Father deigned to use when, in creation’s plan,
His quick’ning Spirit blent with it to mould the frame of man:
And we must love the sacred earth that clothed the form divine
Of the pure and perfect Sacrifice once offer’d on her shrine;
The hallowed earth on which He trod who came to seek and save.
To take the bitterness from death and sanctify the grave.
The grateful earth that breathes her thanks for Heaven’s refreshing
showers,
The anchor of the waving trees, the mother of the flowers;
The trustful earth that patient lies beneath a torrid sky,
And carries on her works of love in blessed secrecy:
The smiling earth that opens wide her fair and ample breast.
A field of emprise to the young, and to the weary rest:
The kindly nurse to whom the care of infant souls is given,
To feed and cherish while they learn the alphabet of Heaven;
The cradle where we toss and fret, our whims to gratify,
And throw our simple toys aside while for the moon we cry.
The court whereon we march and shout, and make our small display.
The arena where, with hand or brain, our cunning games we play:
The sod on which we toil and groan our dole of bread to earn.
While still for larger share of cake and choicer fruit we yearn:
The chart on which we daily trace our vacillating course
That tends through folly’s pleasant fields to chasms of remorse:
The breast on which we cast ourselves when tempests loom and lower.
And weep out all our bitter tears in retribution’s hour:
The lap where aching head and heart may nestle to repose,
The gentle hand beneath whose touch the weary eyelids close.
And when, her long, long travail o’er, her children shall arise,
And all the blessedness of life more clearly realise,
When mighty ocean’s sepulchres their mysteries unfold,
And many sheep from other flocks are gather’d to the fold:
Though distant worlds pour forth their sons in glorious array.
And all the planets yield their dead to meet the judgment day.
The ransom’d millions she has rear’d may rally round her yet.
Nor in the universal bliss her agonies forget:
And though to nobler work assign’d, in more exalted sphere.
We shall not leave our clay-built home without a grateful tear:
We’ll lay the cross upon her breast, the lily at her side,
In trust that this, our Mother Earth, shall yet be glorified.
(Emily Mary Barton)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Man Poems, Life Poems, Mind Poems, Soul Poems, Nature Poems, Faces Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Youth Poems, Heaven Poems, Flowers PoemsBased on Keywords: emprise, deigned, choicer, vacillating, vivifying, germinating, clay-built