NAMELESS PAIN.

I should be happy with my lot:

A wife and mother — is it not

Enough for me to be content?

What other blessing could be sent?

A quiet house, and homely ways,

That make each day like other days;

I only see Time's shadow now

Darken the hair on baby's brow!

No world's work ever comes to me,

No beggar brings his misery;

I have no power, no healing art

With bruisèd soul or broken heart.

I read the poets of the age,

‘ Tis lotus-eating in a cage;

I study Art, but Art is dead

To one who clamors to be fed

With milk from Nature's rugged breast,

Who longs for Labor's lusty rest.

O foolish wish! I still should pine

If any other lot were mine.