The things we long for, and shall never see
Until we join thee in the after-world;
Thee, little child! who camest, and art gone,
Who wert our child, and art our child no more,
Being familiar with the floor of heaven,
And dwelling nigh unto the throne of God!
THE DYING MOTHER AND HER CHILD.
OUR sighs were numerous, and profuse our tears;
For she we lost was lovely, and we loved
Her much. Fresh in our memory, as fresh
As yesterday, is yet the day she died.
It was an April day; and blithely all
The youth of Nature leaped beneath the sun,
And promised glorious manhood; and our hearts
Were glad, and round them danced the lightsome blood,
In healthy merriment, when tidings came
A child was born; and tidings came again
That she who gave it birth was sick to death.
So swift trod sorrow on the heels of joy!
We gathered round her bed, and bent our knees
In fervent supplication to the Throne
Of Mercy, and perfumed our prayers with sighs
Sincere, and penitential tears, and looks
Of self-abasement; but we sought to stay
An angel on the earth, a spirit ripe
For heaven; and Mercy, in her love, refused:
Most merciful, as oft, when seeming least!
Most gracious when she seemed the most to frown!
The room I well remember, and the bed
On which she lay, and all the faces, too,
That crowded dark and mournfully around.
Her father there, and mother, bending, stood;
And down their aged cheeks fell many drops
Of bitterness. Her husband, too, was there,
And brothers, and they wept; her sisters, too,
Did weep and sorrow, comfortless; and I
Too wept, though not to weeping given: and all
Within the house was dolorous and sad.
This I remember well; but better still
I do remember, and will ne'er forget,
The dying eye! That eye alone was bright,
And brighter grew as nearer death approached:
As I have seen the gentle little flower
Look fairest in the silver beam which fell
Reflected from the thunder-cloud, that soon
Came down, and o'er the desert scattered far
And wide its loveliness. She made a sign
To bring her babe: 'twas brought, and by her placed.
She looked upon its face, that neither smiled
Nor wept, nor knew who gazed upon 't; and laid
Her hand upon its little breast, and sought
For it, with look that seem'd to penetrate
The heavens, unutterable blessings, such
As God to dying parents only granted,
For infants left behind them in the world.
"God keep my child!" we heard her say, and heard No more. The Angel of the Covenant
Was come, and, faithful to His promise, stood
Prepared to walk with her through death's dark vale.
And now her eyes grew bright, and brighter still,
Too bright for ours to look upon, suffused
With many tears, and closed without a cloud.
They set, as sets the morning star, which goes
Not down behind the darkened west, nor hides
Obscured among the tempests of the sky,
But melts away into the light of heaven.
REV. DR. ALEX. WALLACE, GLASGOW.
SAD, sad thoughts and weary
Had preyed upon my mind;
A darkness deep and dreary
Had made me sick and blind.
But now upon the ocean
Of troubled thoughts I see
My Saviour's graceful motion:
He cometh unto me.
The winds and waves He stilleth,
And all is calm again;
My soul with life He filleth,
Like sunshine after rain.
The eye of faith is beaming
With joy sent from above;
The rainbow cloud is streaming,
The pledge of constant love.
My loosened tongue adoreth
The greatness of His might;
His smile alone restoreth
The darken'd soul to light.
JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE, Lancashire.
"OH, dearest mother! tell me, pray,
Why are the dew-drops gone so soon?
Could they not stay till close of day
To sparkle on the flowery spray,
Or on the fields till noon?"
The mother gazed upon her boy,
Earnest with thought beyond his years, And felt a sharp and sad annoy,
That meddled with her deepest joy;
But she restrained her tears.
"My child, 'tis said such beauteous things,
Too often loved with vain excess,
Are swept away by angel wings,
Before contamination clings
To their frail loveliness.
Behold yon rainbow, brightening yet!
To which all mingled hues are given;
There are thy dew-drops, grandly set
In a resplendent coronet
Upon the brow of heaven.
No stain of earth can reach them there, Woven with sunbeams there they shine, A transient vision of the air,
But yet a symbol, pure and fair,
Of love and peace divine."
The boy gazed upward into space,
With eager and inquiring eyes,
Whilst o'er his sweet and thoughtful face Came a faint glory, and a grace
Transmitted from the skies.
Ere the last odorous sigh of May,
That child lay down beneath the sod!
Like dew his young soul passed away,
To mingle with the brighter day
That veils the throne of God.
Mother! thy fond, foreboding heart
Truly foretold thy loss and pain;
But thou didst choose the patient part
Of resignation to the smart,
And owned thy loss his gain.
REV. WILLIAM M. TAYLOR, A.M., Liverpool.
A ROSE-TREE by my house-side I did plant,
And in its growing I took great delight;
I nailed its branches to the wall, and watched
Them spread, until they wreathed my window round
With leafy beauty. Every time I looked
Abroad, its verdure feasted my glad eyes;
And when, returning from my vineyard work
At night, I sought my home, I lingered still
Upon the threshold, that once more I might,
Before I slept, behold its loveliness
Each little spray I knew, its very leaves
I numbered, and with rapture saw at length,
One morning, 'mid the sparkling drops of dew,
Its virgin buds peep out, their conic forms
All fringed with mossy softness, and the white
Beneath half covered, half revealed. I clapped
My hands for joy, and called my friends and showed
My new discovered riches. Nine there were,
All lovely, and I said, with heart sincere,
"As each one ripens to its fragrance full,
I'll give it to my Lord;" for this had been
My purpose from the planting of the tree;
And this it was that made my joy so rich.
I left my home that morning as my wont,
Only my heart was blither than sometimes,
And, at my work, I thought full oft about
My rosebuds, wondering much what like they'd be
At my return, and almost wishing that
The day were done, that I might see them still
Again. The evening came, I hastened home,
And looked; and lo! there were no more than seven!
Some hand had plucked the other two, and left
The stem on which they grew a broken thing.
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