The meek-eyed Morn appears, mother of dews. The Seasons:  Summer.  J. THOMSON.

  Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet
  With charms of earliest birds; pleasant the sun,
  When first on this delightful land he spreads
  His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
  Glistering with dew.
Paradise Lost, Bk.  IV.  MILTON.

This morning, like the spirit of a youth
That means to be of note, begins betimes.
Antony and Cleopatra, Act iv.  So. 4.  SHAKESPEARE.

                                     Morn,
  Waked by the circling hours, with rosy hand
  Unbarred the gates of light.
Paradise Lost, Bk.  VI.  MILTON.

Now morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime
Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl,
When Adam waked, so customed, for his sleep
Was aery-light, from pure digestion bred.
Paradise Lost, Bk.  V.  MILTON.

  At last, the golden orientall gate
  Of greatest heaven gan to open fayre,
  And Phoebus, fresh as brydegrome to his mate. 
  Came dauncing forth, shaking his dewie hayre;
  And hurls his glistring beams through gloomy ayre.
Faerie Queene, Bk.  I. Canto V.  E. SPENSER.

  But yonder comes the powerful King of Day
  Rejoicing in the east.
The Seasons:  Summer.  J. THOMSON.

    ’Tis always morning somewhere in the world,
  And Eos rises, circling constantly
  The varied regions of mankind.  No pause
  Of renovation and of freshening rays
  She knows.
Orion, Bk.  III.  Canto III.  R.H.  HORNE.

MOTHER.

  The only love which, on this teeming earth,
  Asks no return for passion’s wayward birth.
The Dream.  HON.  MRS. NORTON.

  A mother’s love,—­how sweet the name! 
    What is a mother’s love?—­
  A noble, pure and tender flame. 
    Enkindled from above. 
  To bless a heart of earthly mould;
  The warmest love that can grow cold;—­
    This is a mother’s love.
A Mother’s Love.  J. MONTGOMERY.

  Hath he set bounds between their love and me? 
  I am their mother; who shall bar me from them?
King Richard III., Act iv.  Sc.1.  SHAKESPEARE.

The poor wren,
The most diminutive of birds, will fight,
Her young ones in her nest, against the owl.
Macbeth, Act iv.  Sc.2.  SHAKESPEARE.

Where yet was ever found a mother
Who’d give her booby for another?
Fables:  The Mother, the Nurse, and the Fairy, J. GAY.

                             Women know
  The way to rear up children (to be just);
  They know a simple, merry, tender knack
  Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes,
  And stringing pretty words that make no sense,
  And kissing full sense into empty words: 
  Which things are corals to cut life upon,
  Although such trifles.
Aurora Leigh, Bk.  I.  E.B.  BROWNING.