ishment.

God is the adorable fountain of all tenderness, love, and compassion,
and no mother's son was imbued in the fount of mercy like his, who was
"the brightness of his glory and the express image of his
perfections." True, her yearnings over the babe of her bosom are
great; still they bear but little comparison to him who breathed those
feelings there. God compares himself to the mother. "Can a woman
forget her sucking child"? Woman, being of a more delicate formation
than man, possesses a mind susceptible of more fine, deep, and lasting
impressions than his. The affections of her soul, when fully roused
into action, and fixed upon their object, are deeper than those of
man, extend far beyond the compass line of his, and nobly range those
sequestered haunts--those delightful fields of mental felicity, where
his finest affections never penetrated. Let her heart once become
fixed upon its darling object, and it is immaterial in what situation
in life we contemplate her--whether prosperous or adverse, we behold
the same unshaken constancy, the same bright and burning flame. Her
love to her children is pure as the dew-drops of the morning, high as
the heavens and unchanging as the sun. It scorns dictation, bids
defiance to oppression, and never for one moment loses sight of its
object. No disappointments that cross her path, no scenes of adverse
fortune that darken her sky, can wrench it from her grasp, obscure it
from her vision, or tear assunder the silken cord that binds it to her
heart.

The truth of these remarks we see verified in that unwearied
watchfulness and care, which she exercises over her children in
supplying their countless, and ever varied little wants; in allaying
their little griefs, in soothing their tender hearts by the soft
whispers of encouragement and love; in hushing them to repose and in
watching over the slumbers of their pillow. Are her children exposed
to danger, and full in her view? Then no devouring flame, that wraps
her dwelling in destruction--no rolling surges that lash the foaming
main, can, in such a moment of peril, over-awe her spirit, or deter
her from rushing into the very jaws of death to save them. Are they
sick? Sleepless she sits beside their bed, and watches every breath
they draw. Are they racked with pain? Her soul inhales the pang; and
freely drinks at the same fount of agony, and breathes over them the
prayer of mercy. Love is that _attribute_ in her nature to which