. Waifs, and their authors . ^vard Benny, feelinghis mothers heart throb in every line, has come back topurer paths for her sake. Who knows ? This poem hasalso strayed widely as a waif. There are few more real-istic bits of verse, and it stands in pathetic witness againsta theory held by many good people, that genuine pathoscan come only from actual experience—that poets mustlearn in sorrow what they teach in song. When wrote If, she knew not the joys of motherhood,in her own person, and some will ask, How, then, couldshe be so touched by its possible Is poetic senti-. ■A litt
. Waifs, and their authors . ^vard Benny, feelinghis mothers heart throb in every line, has come back topurer paths for her sake. Who knows ? This poem hasalso strayed widely as a waif. There are few more real-istic bits of verse, and it stands in pathetic witness againsta theory held by many good people, that genuine pathoscan come only from actual experience—that poets mustlearn in sorrow what they teach in song. When wrote If, she knew not the joys of motherhood,in her own person, and some will ask, How, then, couldshe be so touched by its possible Is poetic senti-. ■A little elbow leans upon your knee,Your tired knee that has so much to bear;A childs dear eyes are looking lovinglyFrom underneath a thatch ot tangled hair. Page 7. MA V RILE V SMITH. 7 ment all a fiction ? No, the sentiment is real always,when it is true, and it makes impress only in proportionto its truth ; but the reality may be of fancy alone, or, ifyou please, of sympathetic imagination. That which youread with a heart-throb, was written with a is a fiction of sentiment so real, momentarily, tothe poet, that others may be excused for believing it realalways. In further evidence of this, we have the follow-ing, written for T/ie AMne, and thence widely re-printed : TIRED MOTHERS. ■ ■ A. litde elbow leans upon your knee, Your tired knee that has so much to bear;A childs dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a thatch of tangled you do not heed the velvet touch Of warm, moist fingers holding yours so tight;You do not prize this blessing
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