Took Mary by the hand, and they knelt down
And worshipp'd Him who loved them.
THOUGHTS WHILE MAKING THE GRAVE OF A NEW-BORN
CHILD.
ROOM, gentle flowers! my child would pass to heaven!
Ye look'd not for her yet with your soft eyes,
O watchful ushers at Death's narrow door!
But lo! while you delay to let her forth,
Angels, beyond, stay for her! One long kiss
From lips all pale with agony, and tears,
Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire
The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life
Held as a welcome to her. Weep! oh mother!
But not that from this cup of bitterness
A cherub of the sky has turn'd away.
One look upon thy face ere thou depart!
My daughter! It is soon to let thee go !
My daughter! With thy birth has gush'd a spring
I knew not of-filling my heart with tears,
And turning with strange tenderness to thee-
A love-oh God! it seems so that must flow
Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt heaven and me,
Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain
Drawing me after thee! And so, farewell!
'Tis a harsh world, in which affection knows No place to treasure up its loved and lost
But the foul grave! Thou, who so late wast sleeping
Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart,
Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving
But it was sent thee with some tender thought,
How can I leave thee-here! Alas for man!
The herb in its humility may fall
And waste into the bright and genial air,
While we-by hands that minister'd in life
Nothing but love to us-are thrust away-
The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms,
And the warm sunshine trodden out forever!
Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child,
A bank where I have lain in summer hours,
And thought how little it would seem like death
To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook,
Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps
That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on,
Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone;
The birds are never silent that build here,
Trying to sing down the more vocal waters:
The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers,
And far below, seen under arching leaves,
Glitters the warm sun on the village spire,
Pointing the living after thee. And this
Seems like a comfort; and, replacing now
The flowers that have made room for thee, I go
To whisper the same peace to her who lies
Robb'd of her child and lonely.
'Tis the work
Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer,
To bring the heart back from an infant gone.
Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot
The images from all the silent rooms,
And every sight and sound familiar to her
Undo its sweetest link-and so at last
The fountain-that, once struck, must flow forever-
Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile
Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring
Wakens the buds above thee, we will come,
And, standing by thy music-haunted grave,
Look on each other cheerfully, and say :—
A child that we have loved is gone to heaven,
And by this gate of flowers she pass'd away!
ON THE DEPARTURE OF REV. MR. WHITE
FROM HIS PARISH, WHEN CHOSEN PRESIDENT OF WABASH COLLEGE.
LEAVE us not, man of prayer! Like Paul, hast thou "Served God with all humility of mind,"
Dwelling among us, and "with many tears,"
"From house to house," " by night and day not ceasing,"
Hast pleaded thy blest errand. Leave us not!
Leave us not now! The Sabbath-bell,, so long
Link'd with thy voice-the prelude to thy prayer-
The call to us from heaven to come with thee
Into the house of God, and, from thy lips,
Hear what had fall'n upon thy heart-will sound
Lonely and mournfully when thou art gone !
Our prayers are in thy words our hope in Christ
Warm'd on thy lips our darkling thoughts of God
Follow'd thy loved call upward-and so knit
Is all our worship with those outspread hands,
And the imploring voice, which, well we knew,
Sank in the ear of Jesus-that, with thee,
The angel's ladder seems removed from sight,
And we astray in darkness! Leave us not!
Leave not the dead! They have lain calmly down-
Thy comfort in their ears-believing well
That when thine own more holy work was done,
Thou wouldst lie down beside them, and be near
When the last trump shall summon, to fold up
Thy flock affrighted, and, with that same voice
Whose whisper'd promises could sweeten death,
Take up once more the interrupted strain,
And wait Christ's coming, saying, "Here am I,
And those whom thou hast given me !" Leave not
The old, who, 'mid the gathering shadows, cling
To their accustom'd staff, and know not how
To lose thee, and so near the darkest hour!
Leave not the penitent, whose soul may be
Deaf to the strange voice, but awake to thine!
Leave not the mourner thou hast sooth'd-the heart
Turns to its comforter again! Leave not
The child thou hast baptized! another's care
May not keep bright, upon the mother's heart,
The covenant seal; the infant's ear has caught
Words it has strangely ponder'd from thy lips,
And the remember'd tone may find again,
And quicken for the harvest, the first seed
Sown for eternity! Leave not the child!
Yet if thou wilt-if, "bound in spirit," thou
Must go, and we shall see thy face no more,
"The will of God be done!" We do not say
Remember us-thou wilt-in love and prayer!
And thou wilt be remember'd-by the dead,
When the last trump awakes them-by the old,
When, of the "silver cord" whose strength thou knowest,
The last thread fails-by the bereaved and stricken,
When the dark cloud, wherein thou found'st a spot
Broke by the light of mercy, lowers again-
By the sad mother, pleading for her child,
In murmurs difficult, since thou art gone-
By all thou leavest, when the Sabbath-bell
Brings us together, and the closing hymn
Hushes our hearts to pray, and thy loved voice,
That all our wants had grown to, (only thus,
'Twould seem, articulate to God,) falls not
Upon our listening ears-remember'd thus-
Remember'd well-in all our holiest hours-
Will be the faithful shepherd we have lost!
And ever with one prayer, for which our love
Will find the pleading words,-that in the light
Of heaven we may behold his face once more !
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