Monica, the Mother of Augustine

A CHURCH BALLAD .

H E woke from fitful slumber — woke to muse,
Of sinful joys in prospect — and the hues
Of magic colored all the hours to come,
While thoughts of mother, God, and heavenly home,
All succumbed to the one intense desire,
Of feeding to the full, base passion's fiercest fire!!

A mother wrestled for that erring Son,
With heart all bursting, and with yearning soul,
As Ocean-bed so deep did feeling run,
Strong as the surges as they onward roll,
Dead to all thought but this — that Folly's child,
Might break the maze of vice, and be no more beguiled.

A pen was wielded by a master hand,
And Heresy recoiled — for Truth was power;
And who, for God, the Altar-fire hath fanned,
But he, who turned from that Circean bower,
Turned in his manhood's might, now strong in grace,
And sought within the Church, a stable resting-place.

A Bishop ruled in Hippo — and his heart,
Large as the circle of his constant care,
Was all his Master's, earth could claim no part;
His life was labor, and his breath was prayer,
That Bishop all a mother's hopes had crowned,
A brand from burning plucked — a lost one more than found.

Monica! thy soft graces all were hid,
In the effulgence of thy loved one's fame,
But can we muse on what A UGUSTINE did,
And not revere his Parent's honored name?
In memory's tide, both shall commingling run ,
Both thrill the breast with joy, that Mother aad her Son!!
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