POETRY and painting have long been esteemed sister arts; and the history of the world teaches us, that they have ever exercised over each other a tender, sister-like care. Where one has been cherished, the other has never languished; and where one has been neglected, the other has invariably shown tokens of decay. The painter presents a picture to charm the outward eye; the poet creates one to delight the mental vision. Painting is imitative, for it gives us the semblances of the visible forms of nature; but poetry is creative--it deals with thought and feeling, portrays soul-pictures, and stamps them on mind and heart in fancy's own imperishable colors. But they may be combined. The almost breathing beings of the painter's hand may become the subject of the poet's song; then, like the varied tints of the flower or the different hues of the rainbow, they mutually receive and impart each other's loveliness, and the effect is the production of the most refined and soul-elevating feelings. Of this combination Cowper has taken full advantage, by transcribing on his heart the venerated productions of the painter's skill, and giving in his own sweet verse the feelings and emotions which it awakened there.

      And yet the poet hath not sought out, as the theme of his verse, the noblest productions of the painter's pencil. He has passed by the Sistine Chapel, where the mighty, majestic figures of Angelo seem starting from the canvas, and even the milder, softer graces of Raphael, as they appear in the more than mortal beauty of his female forms, have been slighted; and the lyre gave forth no echo, till the representation of a departed mother woke, in the heart of the poet, a tide of irrepressible emotion. There is no altar where the incense of gratitude and fervent love can rise purer and holier, than from that in memory's domain devoted to the remembrance of the tender watcher and kind instructress of our childhood's years; there is no link in the chain of our being with which are associated so many memories which make the past so mournfully pleasant, or illume the future with the light of such joyous hopes. None but a mother's love can fill the heart yearning for pure and disinterested affection. The men of the world may offer us their friendship; but the gift is one, the value of which a word or a look may change. Many of the ties of common kindred may bind for a season; yet even such friends often "grow strangely cold." The sunniest smiles and softest tones of those we deem friends may be changed to scornful frowns and words of bitter, contemptuous hate; but a mother's love changes not--years of estrangement, of folly, and crime can not seal up that fountain--the tongue of malignant slander and the burning words of unwelcome truth can not turn away her heart from the object of her affection; for that object, however blackened by slander or debased by crime, can never be deemed utterly and hopelessly lost by a mother's hoping and trusting heart. It is a redeeming feature, too, in our own nature, that we retain, with the utmost tenacity, the recollection of that being, whose bosom pillowed us in infancy, whose care began with our earliest breath, and whose tender solicitude ended only with her life.

      Mother! what unutterable emotions throng the inmost chambers of the heart when that name, of all earthly names the dearest, strikes upon the ear, and brings before the mind that being in whose mild eyes the light of love beams no longer, but who must ever be the object of tender regret and tearful remembrance. With that name are linked all the joys of life's sinless and unclouded hours; pleasures then were ours which become brighter as they recede, and hopes filled our breasts, the very remembrance of which is dearer than all the enjoyments we now most prize; the pain which now succeeds pleasure, and the despair which ever blends with the fading hues of hopes once radiant, were then unknown, for we were soothed by the tones of a mother's song, and lived in the light of a mother's smile. Other ties may be sundered, but time will heal the wounded heart; other idols may be broken, but their places may be filled by other objects, which will soon seem as dear as they; strains may be lost, which others may waken; light which cheered our path may become dim, and give place to others of brighter beam; but there is one strain which, if hushed, can never be wakened, one light which, if quenched, may not be reillumed on earth: that strain is the music of a mother's voice--that light the flame of a mother's changeless love. Mother! 'tis a sacred name; and when we speak of one who has departed, we should use it most reverently; for she who bestowed such care on earth is, doubtless, a guardian angel still. [232]

[The Ladies' Repository 10 (July 1850): 232.]

      William Baxter's "Short Sermons from the Poets: Number VIII" was first published in The Ladies' Repository: A Monthly Periodical Devoted to Literature and Religion, Vol. 10, No. 7, July 1850, p. 232. This volume, edited by B. F. Tefft, was published in Cincinnati by L. Swormstedt and J. H. Power and in New York by G. Lane and L. Scott.

      Pagination in the electronic version has been represented by placing the page number in brackets following the last complete word on the printed page.

      Addenda and corrigenda are earnestly solicited.

Ernie Stefanik
Derry, PA

Created 15 April 2000.
Updated 28 June 2003.