and COPY, 1898. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Chap. Copyright No Slielf.......S55 Hf UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. HEART'S-EASE A Mother's Offering By MRS. L. B. HANCOCK "^ CINCINNATI PRINTED BY CURTS & JENNINGS . H 53 Hi- •?,i70 COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY MRS. L. B. HANCOCK. .Wf 4-- 1899 TO THE IN THE GREAT ••HOUSEHOLD OF THE SORROWING,** AND In JVIcmory OF THE AWGEL-CHILD WHO PASSED TO HIS HEAVENLg HOME DEC. 7, 1874, IS THIS VOI.UME; j®refGiCe. " There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there ; There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair." " The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mourning for the dead; The heart of Rachel for her children crying. Will not be comforted." — Longfellow. T has been said, and I believe truthfully, that .he who speaks or writes of the death of little children will never lack for au- ditors or readers; but never did I fully realize this, or the darkness of the shadow cast by one little grave, till death entered my own home-circle — invaded my own fireside — and robbed me of my own pre- cious boy. The following selections consist of some 5 6 PREFACE. original thoughts, and some tender, loving contributions from dear friends ; but mainly they are "waifs," gathered from news- papers, magazines, or our own standard authors, in which a weeping mother found vent for her own sad emotions; but at the solicitations of friends I have concluded to send them out on a mis- sion of sympathy to other smitten house- holds. Perchance they may touch some responsive chord in the hearts of other mothers who have been bereaved as I was — who suffer, and who have been, like myself, crushed by a peculiar weight of woe. A short time since, mother, and you, too, were busy with cares that have ceased forever — a child to sing to sleep, who now sleeps the sleep unwaking. You were making garments for one who now walks evermore in white. You clasped a tiny, plump figure in your arms to be bathed and clad, who now soars with sing- ing far into the azure blue. You have wept PREFACE. 7 until tears are exhausted; the ordinary cares and labors of life seem profanation, and amidst the sacred hush that has come to you, mother, we dare not tell you of any earthly pity, or speak of others who have lost, like you, perhaps, " the one lamb from the fold." You feel there was some win- ning grace, some bond of special nearness, that makes your sorrow beyond all other sorrow. But while words of sympathy seem such utter mockery at a time like this, we can, at least, mingle our tears and commend each other to the great Consoler who wept with the sisters in Bethany ; to the Divine compassion of Him who yielded up his only Son; and in going to him we go to one who knows more than we pos- sibly can of loss. He only can heal bleed- ing hearts. With the flight of years, as Time has mellowed and softened my own grief, to the original compilation of tender, touch- ing bits of pathos I have added brighter, 8 PREFACE. more sparkling "waifs" of poesy, that steal o'er the heart, sweet as vesper chimes, or " Like some soft, sweet lullaby Heard in days long since gone by. When pressed to a bosom white, Mother's singing bushed us quite." Mrs. ly. B. Hancock. '% tf£ar a vo\a vjovl can nnt tjear, ^tltrtj satjs S must not statj; S uz a tjant) ijou can not uz, W\]xc\] bzckom mz araaij." HEflf?T'S-EASE. Of ploWer^. BY M. F. BGAN. HERB were no roses till the first child died; No violets, nor balmy-breathed heart's-ease ; No heliotropes, nor buds so dear to bees, The honey -hearted suckle ; no gold-eyed And lowly dandelion ; nor, stretching wide. Clover and cowslip-cups, like rival seas. Meeting and parting, as the young spring breeze Runs giddy races, playing seek and hide. For all flowers died when Eve left paradise. And all the world was flowerless awhile. Until a little child was laid in earth ; Then from its grave grew violets for its eyes, And from its lips rose-petals for its smile ; And so all flowers from that child's death took birth. 12 A mother's offering fHE stars that disappear at morn, O think not they are fled ; They are not lost, they are not gone, But 'mid the glory shed Around them by the Source of Light, They shine more sweetly than at night, — It is the night that 's dead. And thus the loved who disappear, Pass like the morning's flight. And walk in paths so sweet and clear, As blind us with the light. They sit upon the azure day. They float on twilight's downy gray, And on the clouds at night. O deep and wondrous heart of man, Strange fount of joy and woe; In this sad life no eye may scan Thy current's ebb and flow ! But in the glorious world to come The voice of discord shall be dumb, And thou thyself shalt know. TO THE BEREAVED. 1 3 To "preddie I^ancocH. BY MAMMA. fAM sitting, little Freddie, by my case- ment, sad and lone, And my inmost heart is grieving for my best beloved one. I am waiting, little Freddie, till the shadows pass away. And these dim eyes will behold thee in a bright and perfect day. I am waiting, little Freddie, till the stars peep out above. And your sister Edith whispers, " That 's the home of him we love." But I 'm lonely, little Freddie — O so lonely none can tell — For you, of all my babies, loved poor mother passing well. I am thinking, little Freddie, till my heart will almost burst, Of the little chiseled features, the sweetest that I nursed; I am weeping, little Freddie, for the loving head that lay On my bosom till it slumbered, and I laid it snug away. 14 A mother's OFFERINCP I am looking, little Freddie, at your tiny vacant chair, But I miss its pretty occupant, who conned his lessons there. I am listening, little Freddie, to the blithe birds as they sing, For they 'mind me of you, darling, as they pass me on the wing. I am weary, little Freddie, and I fain would lay my head Down beside " my precious boy " in his green and narrow bed. And I'm hoping, little Freddie, that the time may not be long When amongst God's blessed angels I may hear " my Freddie's " song. "If We Knew." fF we knew the woe and heartache Waiting for us down the road ; If our lips could taste the wormwood, If our backs could feel the load, — Would we waste the day in wishing For a time that ne'er can be? Would we wait in such impatience For our ships to come from sea? TO THE BEREAVED, 15 If we knew the baby fingers Pressed against the window-pane Would be cold and stiff to-morrow, Never trouble us again, — Would the bright eyes of our darling Catch the frown upon our brow? Would the print of rosy fingers Vex us then as they do now? Ah, these little ice-cold fingers ! How they point our memories back To the hasty word and action Strewn along our backward track! How these little hands remind us, As in snowy grace they lie. Not to scatter thorns but roses, For our reaping by and by. Strange, we never prize the music Till the sweet- voiced bird has flown; Strange, that we should slight the violets Till the lovely flowers are gone ; Strange, that summer skies and sunshine Never seem one-half so fair As when winter's snowy pinions Shake their white down in the air ! Lips, from which the seal of silence None but God can roll away, Never blossomed in such beauty As adorns the mouth to-day. 1 6 A mother's offering And sweet words that freight our memory With their beautiful perfume, Come to us in sweeter accents Through the portals of the tomb. Let us gather up the sunbeams Lying all around our path ; Let us keep the wheat and roses, Casting out the thorns and chaff; Let us find our sweetest comfort In the blessings of to-day. With a patient hand removing All the briers from our way. l^opele55 (§)orroW. BY J. G. WHITTIER. fLAS for him who never sees The stars shine through his cypress- "^ trees ! Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, Nor looks to see the breaking day Across the mournful marbles play ; Who hath not learned in hours of faith. The truth — to flesh and sense unknown — That life is ever lord of death, And love can never lose its own. TO THE BEREAVED. 1 7 The Empty ©rs^dle. c^N a still and quiet chamber ^A There 's an empty cradle-bed, ^ With a print upon the pillow Of a baby's shining head. 'T is a fair and dainty cradle — Downy, soft, the pillow white — But within the blankets folded, Lies no little form to-night. Once the mother sat beside it When the day was growing dim. And her pleasant voice was singing, Soft and low, a cradle-hymn ; Now there 's no more need of singing When the evening shadows creep, For the cradle-bed is empty, And the baby gone to sleep. Little head that used to nestle In the pillows white and soft ; Little hands whose restless fingers Folded there in dreams so oft ; Lips we pressed with fondest kisses, Eyes we praised for purest ray, — Underneath the churchyard daisies They have hid you all away ! 1 8 A MOTHER'S OFFERING Ah ! the empty, useless cradle ! We will put it out of sight, Lest our hearts should grieve too sorely For the little one to-night. We will think how, safe forever In the better fold above, That young lamb for which we sorrow Resteth now in Jesus' love. On a ©Url of (^\(M S^ astray, ^ For the little shoes are empty in my closet laid away! Sometimes I take one in my hand, forget- ting till I see It is a little half-worn shoe, not large enough for me ; And all at once I feel a sense of bitter loss and pain, As sharp as when, two years ago, it cut my heart in twain. 38 A mother's offering little feet that wearied not, I wait for them no more, For I am drifting on the tide, but they have reached the shore; And, while the blinding teardrops wet these little shoes so old, 1 try to think my darlings' feet are tread- ing streets of gold. And so I lay them down again, but always turn to say, God bless the little feet that ?iow so surely can not stray. And while I thus am standing, I almost seem to see Two little forms beside me, just as they used to be ! Two little faces lifted with their sweet and tender eyes — Ah, me ! I might have known that look was born of paradise. I reach my arms out fondly, but they clasp the empty air! There is nothing of my darlings but the shoes they used to wear. O, the bitterness of parting can not be done away Till I meet my darlings walking where their feet can never stray; TO THE BEREAVED. 39 When I no more am drifted upon the surg- ing tide, But with them safely landed upon the river side. Be patient, heart ! while waiting to see their shining way, For the little feet in the golden street can never go astray. ©o^by Looking Out for M^- fWO little busy hands patting on the window ; "= Two laughing, bright eyes looking out at me ; Two rosy-red cheeks dented with a dimple, Mother-bird is coming — baby do you see ? Down by the lilac-bush something white and azure Saw I in the window, as I passed the tree : Well I knew the apron and shoulder-knots of ribbon All belonged to baby, looking out for me. Talking low and tenderly To myself, as mothers will, Spake I softly, " God in heaven Keep my darling free from ill. 40 A mother's offering Worldly gain and worldly honors Ask I not for her from thee ; But from want and sin and sorrow Keep her ever pure and free." Two little waxen hands, Folded soft and silently; Two little curtained eyes, Looking out no more for me ; Two little snowy cheeks, Dimple-dented never more ; Two little trodden shoes, That will never touch the floor : Shoulder ribbon softly twisted, Apron folded clean and white ; These are left me — and these only Of the childish presence bright. Thus He sent an answer to my earnest praying, Thus he keeps my darling free from earthly stain. Thus he folds the pet lamb safe from earthly straying; But I miss her sadly by the window-pane, Till I look above it ; then with purer vision, Sad, I weep no longer the lilac-bush to pass. TO THE BEREAVED. 41 For I see her angel, pure and white and sinless, Walking with the harpers on the sea of glass. Two little snowy wings Softly flutter to fro, Two tiny childish hands Beckon still to me below; Two tender angel eyes Watch me ever earnestly Through the loopholes of the stars : Baby 's looking out for me. MV tBad Little Soy. MAMIE L. HAMMEL. ilD you ever see him, my bad little boy, "^^ Down on the sands by the sea ? ^ That is his picture — my boy's own self— With his big eyes smiling at me ! With his hands in his pockets, his hat awry, And his face all covered with tan : O, he was a bad little boy — my boy, Who never will be a man ! 42 A MOTHER'S OFFERING He kept me busy from morn till night ; I lived in a Babel of noise ; He would romp and plaj^ in the roughest way, After the fashion of boys. He spilled my ink, and he broke my pen, I had never a chance to write. Till the mystical music of winds and waves Had lulled him to sleep at night. But once in a while he would come and lay His curly head on my knee, And watch the sun-king going down To his kingdom under the sea; And talk in his odd little way of things Too deep for my duller ken, After the fashion of some little boys — Boys who will never be men. Alas and alas ! for my bad little boy ! It happened one summer day That the light went out of the tired eyes, And the little feet lagged on the way ; And just as the sun was going down To his kingdom under the sea, The angels came for my bad little boy, And took him away from me. TO THE BEREAVED. 43 There is quiet now when I want to write, There is never a toy on the floor ; Nobody teases the cross old cat, Nobody pounds on the door. Nobody loses or breaks my pens, Nobody spills my ink ; I have plenty of time to read and work, I have too much time to think. And I think, as I sit here alone to-night. In the shadowy silence and gloom, I would give the wealth of the world to see My bad little boy in the room — To hear the rollicking ring of his laugh, To see him amongst his toys. Or playing at leap-frog over the chairs, After the fashion of boys. I would give the world — for I miss him so — To have him with me again ! My boy who has entered the silent ranks Of the boys who will never be men ; And I think if an angel looked down to see, His song would lose some of its joy; For all that was dearest in life to me Is gone with my little bad boy. Carthage, Ohio. 44 A mother's offering The F^N^orHe ®V^l<^- BY THE AUTHOR OF "A WOMAN'S POEMS." iHICH of five snowdrops would the moon Think whitest, if the moon could see? Which of five rosebuds flushed with June Were reddest to the mother-tree ? Which of five birds that play one tune On their soft shining throats, may be Chief singer ? Who will answer me ? Would not the moon know, if around One snowdrop any shadow lay ? Would not the rosetree, if the ground Should let one blossom drop a day ? Does not the one bird take a sound Into the cloud when caught away Finer than all the sounds that stay ? O, little quiet boy of mine. Whose yellow head lies languid here — Poor yellow head — its restless shine Brightened the butterflies last year ! Whose pretty hands may intertwine With paler hands, unseen but near, You are my favorite now, I fear ! TO THE BEREAVED. 45 ■pe^po^'^ Letter. I WAS sitting in my study, 1 Writing letters, when I heard : §^ " Please, dear mamma, Mary told me, Mamma must n't be 'isturbed. But I 's tired of the kitty ; Want some ozzer fing to do. W'iting letters, is 'ou, mamma? Tan't I w'ite a letter too?" "Not now, darling; mamma's busy. Run and play with kitty, now." " No, no, mamma ! Me w'ite letter- Tan I, if 'ou will show me how?" I would paint my darling's portrait, As his sweet eyes searched my face Hair of gold, and eyes of azure ; Form of childish, witching grace. But the eager face was clouded, As I slowly shook my head, Till I said, '' I '11 make a letter Of you, darling boy, instead." So I parted back the tresses From his forehead high and white, And a stamp in sport I pasted 'Mid its waves of golden light. 46 A mother's offering Then I said, "Now, little letter, Go away, and bear good news." And I smiled, as down the staircase Clattered loud the little shoes. I^eaving me, the darling hurried Down to Mary in his glee: " Mamma 's w'iting lots of letters; I 'se a letter, Mary — see !" No one heard the little prattler As once more he climbed the stair, Reached his little cap and tippet, Standing on the entry chair. No one heard the front door open ; No one saw the golden hair As it floated o'er his shoulders In the crisp October air. Down the street the baby hastened, Till he reached the office door: " I 'se a letter, Mr. Postman ; Is there room for any more? 'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa; Papa lives with God, 'ou know ; Mamma sent me for a letter; Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go?" TO THE BEREAVED 47 But the clerk in wonder answered, " Not to-day, my little man." " D'en I '11 find anozer office; 'Cause I must do if I tan." Fain the clerk would have detained him; But the pleading face was gone. And the little feet were hastening— By the busy crowd swept on. Suddenly the crowd was parted : People fled to left and right, As a pair of maddened horses At the moment dashed in sight. No one saw the baby figure. No one saw the golden hair, Till a voice of frightened sweetness Rang out on the autumn air. 'T was too late — a moment only Stood the beauteous vision there ; Then the little face lay lifeless. Covered o'er with golden hair. Reverently they raised my darling, Brushed away the curls of gold ; Saw the stamp upon the forehead. Growing now so icy cold. 48 A mother's offering Not a mark the face disfigured, Showing where a hoof had trod ; But the little life was ended — "Papa's letter" was with God. ©ear Little l^fl^nd^. BY MRS. W. C. BELL. cXTV (^^EAR little hands ! I love them so, And now they are lying under the snow. Under the snow, so cold and white, And I can not see or touch them to-night. They are quiet and still at last. Ah me ! How busy and restless they used to be ! But now they can never reach up through the snow ; Dear little hands ! I love them so ! Dear little hands ! I miss them so ! All through the day wherever I go ; All through the night, how lonely it seems. For no little hands wake me out of my dreams, I miss them through all the weary hours ; I miss them as others miss sunshine and flowers ; Day-time or night-time, wherever I go, Dear little hands ! I miss them so ! TO THE BEREAVED. 49 Dear little hands ! They have gone from me now ; Never again will they rest on my brow ; Never again smooth my sorrowful face ; Never clasp mine in their childish em- brace ; And my forehead grows wrinkled and aged with care Thinking of little hands once resting there ; But I know in a happier heavenlier clime, Dear little hands, I shall clasp you in mine. Dear little hands ! When the Master shall call, I '11 welcome the summons that comes to us all. When my feet touch the waters, so dark and so cold, And I catch my first glimpse of the city of gold. If I keep my eyes fixed on the heavenly gate. Over the tide, where the white-robed ones wait. Shall I know you, I wonder, among the bright bands? Will you beckon me over, O dear little hands ? 4 50 A mother's offering Mv <^k\\^> BY JOHN PIERPONT. M CAN not make him dead ! <^ His fair, sunshiny head ^ Is ever bounding round my study chair ; Yet when my eyes, now dim With tears, I turn to him, The vision vanishes — he is not there ! I walk my parlor floor, And through the open door I hear a footfall on the chamber-stair. I 'm stepping toward the hall To give the boy a call, And then bethink me that — he is not there. I thread the crowded street ; A satcheled lad I meet. With the same beaming eye and golden hair; And, as he 's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that — he is not there. I know his face is hid Under the cofSn-lid ; Closed are his eyes, cold is his forehead fair ; My hand that marble felt, O'er it in prayer I knelt ; Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there. TO THE BEREAVED. 51 I can not make him dead : When passing by the bed So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye Seek him inquiringly Before the thought comes that — he is not there. When at the cool gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up with joy To Him who gave my boy. Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there. When at the day's calm close Before we seek repose, I 'm with his mother, offering up our prayer. Whate'er I may be saying, I am in spirit praying For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there. Not there ! Where then is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear ; The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress. Is but his wardrobe lock'd — he is not there. 52 A mother's offering He lives ! in all the past He lives ; nor to the last Of seeing him again will I despair. In dreams I see him now, And on his angel brow I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there." Yes, we all live to God ! Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That in the spirit land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that — ^he is there. To WE^ARY hearts, to mourning homes, God's meekest angel gently comes; No power has he to banish pain. Or give us back our lost again ; And yet, in tenderest love, our dear And heavenly Father sends him here. Angel of patience ! sent to calm Our feverish brows with cooling balm ; To 'lay the storm of hope and fear, And reconcile life's smile and tear, — He walks with thee, that angel kind, And gently whispers : "Be resigned; Bear up, bear on ; the end shall tell ; The dear I,ord ordereth all things well !'* TO THE BEREAVED. 53 The Liitle iSoy K\<^\. ©led. BY JOSHUA D. ROBINSON. fAM all alone in my chamber now, And the midnight hour is near; And the fagot's crack and the clock's dull tick Are the only sounds I hear; And over my soul, in its solitude. Sweet feelings of sadness glide ; For my heart and my eyes are full when I think Of the little boy that died. I went one night to my father's house — Went home to the dear ones all; And softly I opened the garden gate, And softly the door of the hall. My mother came out to meet her son : She kissed me, and then she sighed ; And her head fell on my neck, and she wept For the little boy that died. And when I gazed on his innocent face. As still and cold he lay, And thought what a lovely child he had been. And how soon he must decay, 54 A mother's offering " O death, thou lovest the beautiful !" In the woe of my spirit I cried ; For sparkled the eyes, and the forehead was fair. Of the little boy that died. Again I will go to my father's house — Go home to the dear ones all — And sadly I '11 open the garden gate, And sadly the door of the hall. I shall meet my mother, but nevermore With her darling by her side; But she '11 kiss me, and sigh, and w^eep again For the little boy that died. I shall miss him when the flowers come In the garden where he played; I shall miss him more by the fireside When the flowers have all decayed. I shall see his toys and his empty chair And the horse he used to ride. And they will speak with a silent speech Of the little boy that died. I shall see his little sister again. With her playmates about the door; And I '11 watch the children in their sport As I never did before; TO THE BEREAVED. 55 And if in the group I see a child That 's dimpled and laughing-eyed, I '11 look to see if it may not be The little boy that died. We shall go home to our Father's house — To our Father's house in the skies, Where the hope of our souls shall have no blight, And our love no broken ties. We shall roam on the banks of the river of peace. And bathe in its blissful tide, And one of the joys of our heaven shall be The little boy that died. And therefore, when I am sitting alone, And the midnight hour is near. When the fagot's crack and the clock's dull tick Are the only sounds I hear, O, sweet o'er my soul in its solitude Are the feelings of sadness that glide, Though my heart and my eyes are full, when I think Of the little boy that died. 56 A mother's offering Lmle Boy Blue. BY EUGENE FIELD. fHK little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and stanch he stands ; And the little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket molds in his hands. Time was when the little toy dog was new. And the soldier was passing fair ; And that was the time when our lyittle Boy Blue Kissed them, and put them there. "Now, don't go till I come," he said, ''And don't you make any noise !" So toddling off to his trundle-bed. He dreamt of the pretty toys ; And as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our lyittle Boy Blue : O, the years are many, the years are long; But the little toy friends are true ! Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand. Bach in the same old place. Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face ; And they wonder, as waiting the long years through. In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue, Since he kissed them, and put them there. TO THE BEREAVED. 57 ©one to Hi5 kittle Boy BlUe. [Written by N. A. Jennings upon reading of the death of Eugene Field.] f?HB lyittle Boy Blue, who wandered afar ' At sound of the angel's song, ^ Stands still by the beautiful gates ajar, While around him the children throng. There 's a smile upon the little boy's face, As waiting for papa, he stands, And welcomes him there with a baby grace, And holds out his little hands. Like the little toy dog, all covered with dust, Who keeps his vigil so true; And the little toy soldier, all red with rust, — So has waited the I^ittle Boy Blue. He has wondered why papa has staid away From where all is pure and bright; For he wanted him so, to join in his play, In the beautiful land of light. Ah, deep in the hearts of world-weary men Is the tale of the Little Boy Blue ; And gentle tears come to their tired eyes when They think of the toys so true. As the little boy went at the angel's call, In his dreams at the end of day, So the Master, who loved the little ones all, Has gone to his own, far away. 58 A mother's offering <' .^lOME day," we say, and turn our eyes © Toward the fair hills of Paradise. Some day, sometime, a sweet, new rest Shall blossom, flower-like, in each breast. Sometime, some day, our eyes shall see The faces kept in memory. Some da}^ their hands shall clasp our hands Just over in the Morning Lands. Some da}^ our ears shall hear the song Of triumph over sin and wrong. Some day, sometime ; but O, not yet, — But we will wait, and not forget That some day all these things shall be, And rest be given to you and me. So wait, my friend; though years move slow. The happy time will come, w^e know. 'CirS.«D-piV€\l — "©epartUre — l^eUnion. BY REV. SYLVESTER WEEKS. |W0 little sets of fingers, Holding fast to mine ; Two little eyes of azure, In mildest radiance shine. Two little ears for hearing Every slightest breath; The darlingest little mouth, With the dimpled chin beneath. One broad little chest, Which the quiet breathings swell; Two of the tiniest feet. That we love to see so well. One little soul immortal To guard and train and teach ; With the blessing of God upon us, To lead beyond sorrow's reach. TO THE BEREAVED. 73 We thank Thee, O our Father, For this great mercy given; And with earnest prayerful teaching We will train this child for heaven. Seven bright years of gladness, Seven fleet years of joy ; And then a home of sadness, At the parting with our boy. And the prayer our hearts had cherished. That " Freddie" might live in heaven. Was sooner answered by Jesus Than the time our hearts had given. Away from our tears of sorrow. Up to the radiant throne, Our trusting hearts are turning To one of the white-robed — our own. We thank thee, O our Father, For this new mercy given ; The mysteries are unveiling. Where " Freddie " lives — is heaven, " Wbi.1. done of God, to halve the lot And give her all the sweetness ; To us, the empty room and cot, To her, the Heaven's completeness." 74 -4 mother's offering f '0-DAY we cut the fragrant sod With trembling hands asunder, And lay this well-beloved of God, Our dear, dead baby, under. O hearts that ache, and ache afresh ! O tears too blindly raining! Our hearts are weak, yet being flesh. Too strong for our restraining. Sleep, darling, sleep ! Cold rains shall steep Thy little turf-made dwelling. TJiou wilt not know, so far below, What winds or storms are swelling ; The birds shall sing in the warm spring, And flowers bloom about thee; Thou wilt not heed them, love ; but O The loneliness without thee ! Father, we will be comforted ; Thou wast the Gracious Giver; We yield her up, not dead ! not dead ! To dwell with thee forever. Take thou our child — ours for a day ; Thine while the ages blossom. This little shining head we lay In the Redeemer's bosom ! TO THE BEREAVED. 75 fWAY to and fro, in the twilight gray, This is the ferry of Shadowtown ; It always sails at the end of day, Just as the darkness is closing down. Rest, little head, on my shoulder so, A sleepy kiss is the only fare : Drifting away from the world we go. Baby and I, in the rocking-chair. See, where the firelogs glow and spark. Glitter the lights of Shadowland ! The winter rain on the window — hark ! — Are ripples, lapping up its strand. There, where the mirror is gleaming dim, A lake lies shimmering, cool and still ; Blossoms are waving over its brim. Those over there, on the window-sill. Rock slow, more slow in the dusky light, Silently lower the anchor down — Dear little passenger, say " Good-night," We 've reached the harbor of Shadow- town. 76 A mother's offering Only Q. Lock of V\<^\v. fNLY a day, and yet how long a story ! Only a dream, and yet return it will ; Only a curl from out the auburn glory That crowned her head, now slumbering so still. A little life, and yet it led to heaven — The home that longer ones may never win; She had no wanderings to be fogiven Before the golden door could let her in. Only a sunbeam, for a moment tinting; Only a rainbow in a frowning sky ; And gone so soon, yet on our memories printing Those soft, sad images that can not die. Onl}^ a little bird, to sing and perish; Only a little heart, to beat with love ; Only a lock of hair, to fondly cherish, But one fair angel more to welcome us above ! "One of us darling, it must be; It may be, you will slip from me ; My little life may first be done ; I 'm glad we do not know Which one.' i TO THE BEREAVED. 77 Too Smooth* too Wht^:e. MOTHERS whose children are sleep- ing, Thank God by their pillows to-night, And pray for the mothers now weeping O'er pillows too smooth and too white, Where bright little heads oft have lain, And soft little cheeks have been pressed. O mothers who know not this pain. Take courage to bear all the rest ! For the somber-winged angel is going With pitiless flight o'er the land. And we wake in the morn, never knowing. What he, ere the night, may demand. Yes, to-night,while our darlingsare sleeping, There 's many a soft little bed Whose pillows are moistened with weeping For the loss of one little head. There are hearts on whose innermost altar There is nothing but ashes to-night ; There are voices whose tones sadly falter. And dim eyes that shrink from the light. O mothers whose children are sleeping. As ye bend to caress the fair heads, Pray, pray for the mothers now weeping O'er pitiful smooth little beds. 78 A mother's offering Only a <^\irl. BY MRS. BROWNING. ■^RIENDS, of faces unknown, and c^^ land ^ Unvisited over the sea, Who tell me how lonely you stand With a single gold curl in the hand, Held up to be looked at by me. While you ask me to ponder and say What a father and mother can do With the bright yellow locks put away Out of reach, beyond kiss in the clay. Where the violets press nearer than you. Shall I speak like a poet, or run Into weak woman's tears for relief? O children ! I never lost one Yet, my arms round my own little son, And love knows the secret of grief. And I feel what it must be, and is. When God draws a new angel so Through the house of a man, up to his. With a murmur of music you miss, And a rapture of light you forego. TO THE BEREAVED. 79 How you think, staring on at the door Where the face of your angel flashed in, That its brightness, familiar before, Burns off from you ever the more, For the dark of your sorrow and sin, " God lent him and takes him," you sigh; Nay, there let me break with your pain ; God 's generous in giving, say I, And the thing which he gives, I deny That he ever can take back again. He gives what he gives, I appeal To all who bear babes, in the hour When the veil of the body we feel Rent round us, while torments reveal The motherhood's advent in power. And the babe cries ; has each of us known By apocalypse (God being there Full in nature) the child is our own lyife of life, love of love, moan of moan. Through all changes, all times, every- where ? He 's ours, and forever. Believe, O father! O mother! look back To the first love's assurance. To give Means, with God, not to tempt or deceive With a cup thrust in Benjamin's sack. So A mother's offering He gives what he gives. Be content! He resumes nothing given, be sure! God lend? Where the usurers lent In his temple, indignant he went And scourged away all those impure. He lends not, but gives to the end, As he loves to the end. If it seems That he draws back a gift, comprehend 'T is to add to it, rather — amend, And finish it up to your dream. Or keep, as a mother may, toys Too costly, though given by herself, Till the room shall be stiller from noise, And the children more fit for such joys, Kept over their heads on the shelf. So look up, friends ! you, who indeed "Have possessed in your house a sweet piece Of the heaven which men strive for, must need Be more earnest than others are — speed Where they loiter, persist where they cease. You know how one angel smiles there ; Then courage ! 'T is easy for you To be drawn by a single gold hair Of that curl, from earth's storm and depair To the safe place above us, — Adieu ! TO THE BEREAVED. 8 1 Only ^eVett year5 Old Wl^en ^I^e ©ied. '^NlyY seven years old when she died} Surely the angels must love her dearly ! Bright golden-haired and violet-eyed, None could e'er look on her face severely ! There are children as many as the flowers, But never was one more sweet than ours, The latest bud on an aged tree, Where never blossom again may be. Once I held up my head with the best, Crowned with three flowers of promise bright ; Two — two of the fairest — Death tore from my breast, Five years ago, in the self-same night. She was the only one left to me. And I prayed with groans of agony That burst from my heart, a mingled prayer Of hope and doubting and black despair, That He that who wisely, whatever betide. Would be willing to leave her aye by my side, 6 82 A MOTHER S OFFERING Still blessing her richly with increase of days. It may be He heard me — but ah ! his ways Are not as ours — from the heavenly place Perhaps she lighteneth our life with grace. Only seven years old when she died ! Yet the hopes of two lifetimes died with her! We have not a wish in the world so wide Save that we had gone out on the tide with her ! The tide that has borne them all away, Sibyl and Avis, now little May ; -The ebb that never knows turn or flow, However the full moons come or go ! But I would not murmur — no complaint Breaks from the lips, asleep or awake. Of the mother who bore them, making a feint Of being content for my love's sake. But sometimes her hand clings to her heart, And at certain hours she sits apart ; And the golden light of sunset skies Brings a far-off look into her eyes ; TO THE BEREAVED. 83 And I fear me much that her treasure in heaven Her heart from its earth-hold has almost riven And soon, hearing the voice of her chil- dren three, She, too, will drift out to that unknown sea — "The sea of glass " for her it should be — God help me ! what then will become of me? Only seven years old when she died ! How our old hearts took young delight in her. Our only pleasure, our hope, our pride ! Well ! He who made her had the most right in her ! We took her from him thanksgivingly ; We gave her back — no, not willingly, But not with repining — God forbid ! Yet I think he pardons that we did Falter awhile and fail in our praise, Missing the key to which it was set For a sweet child-treble in happier days. The old tune haunts the memory yet. And we scarce can read, for tears, the page Of blessings left to our altered age. 84 A mother's offering Our "lines" once "fallen in pleasant places," Blankly stare in our darkened faces, And our harps on the willows of grief hang low ; But God, omniscient, has known what we know. Once the harpings of heaven ceased sud- denly. And his heart was thrilled by a bitter cry — The cry of his Son's last agony : He knows what we felt when we saw her die. Only seven years old when she died ! Passed from the earth ere she learned its history ! Now she stands up with the glorified, Fully as wise in the heavenly mystery As they who through great tribulation Fought their way up from every nation, Leavened the world with their life-blood warm. Carried the kingdom of God by storm. Sometimes still they talk of their story — How they suffered and conquered and died; TO THE BEREAVED. 85 Cleft a path on through the cloud to the glory ; She stands listening, wondering-eyed. Naught she knew of toil or endeavor — Mother's arms were around her ever; Little of sorrow, doubt, or despair, Half she questions her right to be there — She who has nothing either suffered or done ; Till, suddenly smiling, she looks to the Son, And folding her pretty hands reverently, Lisps out her child-creed most confi- dently — The same she learned at her mother's knee — "He said, 'Let the little ones come to me.' " Only seven years old when she died ! Seventy long years, yea, and more years still, We have clambered and clung to the side : She stands even now at the top of the hill. Bright in the beams of the morning light ! Ours, at the best, is a starry night. We toil on through the dust and the heat, She sitteth calm at the Master's feet, 86 A MOTHER'S OFFERING Reading the truth of his lovelit face, Answering him back glad smile for smile. We tremblingl}^ shriek out for grace — "lyord, more grace!" Dreading to meet his look all the while, So spotted our souls, and moiled with sin. She shows stainless without and within — A snow-white soul in a robe like snow. Weary and w^ayworn and sad we go, Sorely doubting if, after our course be run, Our life-lasting journey well-battled and done, When the Judge stands up the awards to divide. We shall be worthy to stand by her side, Whose sword was ne'er fleshed, whose strength was ne'er tried — Who was only seven years old when she died! " GriEVK not so much for some one who has died, That over thy neglect the living weep, lyove well the ones that linger at thy side. How multiplied thy sorrows, should they sleep." TO THE BEREAVED. 87 We M^55 H^^ SVcrywI^ere. TO MRS. S. E. R. BY LITTLE HOME BODY. I lylTTlvE form came lovingly j^ Into our arms one day, ^ And we prayed the Heavenly Giver To always let her stay ; But a crown in heaven was waiting, For a jewel rich and rare, And we missed our earthly treasure, Missed our darling everywhere. All around our pleasant dwelling Something tells us of her stay, And we listen for her prattle, As we used to in her play; So we miss her, miss the playthings. Miss the clothes she used to wear. Miss her pattering footsteps coming. Miss our baby everywhere. Spring and summer, autumn, winter. Many times have passed and gone, Since the little face was buried That we used to look upon ; Still we miss her, though another Claims our love and tender care. And our hearts will ever murmur. How we miss her everywhere ! 88 A MOTHER'S OFFERING Grandma's pet and grandpa's darling; Mother's jewel, father's joy, — All the household love was centered In our child, so sweet and coy. *' Heavenly Father, listen to us, Grant us this, our daily prayer, That in yonder far-off mansion, We may meet our darling there !" ■©iVided — United. fOR none return from those quiet shores, Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; We hear the dip of the golden oars. And catch a gleam of the snowy sail ; And lo ! they have passed from our yearn- ing hearts. They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the veil apart That hides from our vision the gates of day; We only know that their barks no more May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, They watch and beckon and wait for me. TO THE BEREAVED. 89 And I sit and think when the sunset's gold Is flushing river and hill and shore, I shall one day stand by the water cold, And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, To the better shore of the spirit land ; I shall know the loved who have gone before, And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the peaceful river, The angel of death shall carry me. CONTRIBUTED BY REV. S. O. ROYAL. Y baby sleeps — Not cradled on my breast, But daisied turf above him pressed. My baby sleeps — Not rocked to rest in snowy white, But curtained close by starry night, My baby sleeps — Not in churchyard's sullen gloom. But lulled to rest in deathless bloom, My baby sleeps. 90 A mother's offering /\Tnon^ tl^e /\n^el5. \HENEVER I sit in the twilight At rest from the toils of the day, And the little ones gather about me Too weary for laughter or play, I think with the longing of sorrow and love Of the one little child that 's away, — Away from the arms of the mother ; And sometimes it grieves me to know Content with the love that surrounds him, He never will miss us below; he looks in the face of the Father above, And walks with the saints to and fro. I love in my fancy to follow Their steps by the river so fair, And list to the wonderful stories The angels are telling him there — The beautiful angels of paradise, And dear little Silver-hair. O Angel of life and of glory ! Come, whisper thy message to me, When sadly I sit and remember The child that has gone from my knee ; For I know in the mansions where Jesus has gone, His little ones surely must be. TO THE BEREAVED. 9 1 The Feet K\qK NJev^ep Stray. BY MARY E. C. WYETH. ?S I mused in the city of the dead, One golden summer day, "^^ And paused where the gleaming marble shone, In its luster fair, o'er some favored one Of earth's loved and called away ; By the rustic pale and the lowly cross. By the simple tablet, stained with moss, . That had edged it where it lay. With a sudden sorrow I traced a name On a broken shaft. Ah! what memories came To shadow the sun-bright day ! And I bowed my head with the silent dead, And wept — I could not pray. Ah ! life so fleet, that thy gift so sweet Should be lightly thrown away, Thy teachings spurned with a scofiQng frown, And thy pleasant sun into night gone down, Ere yet 't is the close of day. I turned where the tender grasses wave In quiet peace o'er a baby's grave. And low in the grass there lay A little cross. How my heart was stirred 92 A mother's offering By the thankful trust of the graven v/ord I read from its page that day : " The little feet iyi the golden street Can never go as tray.'' little feet, in the golden street, Not for 3^ou I wept that day, Though my tears fell fast in the waving grass That grew above you — alas ! alas ! For griefs that w^e can not stay ! 1 wept for the wayward wanderer's fate, Whose feet strayed far from the narrow gate: Aye, strayed into sin's broad way. God knoweth the torn heart's piteous need, His ways are just, though some hearts must bleed ; And I bless his name alway. That the little feet in the golden street Can never go astray. 'QPsai''CirsjB' " So I THINK that human lives Must know God's chisel keen, If the spirit yearns and strives For the better life unseen. For men are only blocks at best, Till the chiseling brings out all the rest. TO THE BEREAVED, 93 Broken pUythtn^^. SHADOW fell on our dwelling, j^^ Yet the sun was clear in the sky, Like some dark spirit foretelling The cloud that was hovering nigh. All through the sunshine of summer, And the misty autumn haze. We welcomed a sweet new-comer With her winsome looks and ways. But when the roses had perished, And the winds sighed through leafless bowers, The one we tenderly cherished Took flight with the birds and the flowers. Alas, for the days so dreary ! And the hours so strangely still, The longing till hearts are weary, For something the void to fill ! A picture hangs from the ceiling — A fairy with silken hair; Eyes the deep spirit revealing; One little foot that is bare; The sweet, ruby lips are parting, And the merry dimples play ; Alas ! for our tears are starting. Our darling is far away ! 94 A mother's offering We tread the accustomed places, But shadows darken our joy, As the old familiar faces Appear on each shattered toy, — The dolls, with their robes all tarnished; The empty spools on a string; Broken fans that once were garnished With many a lustrous thing; Meek lambs, with enduring fleeces; Shells that in ocean were found; Rattles all taken to pieces, To see what occasioned the sound; Rubber rings, where memory lingers On four little teeth of pearl. That sometimes shut on our fingers, — The weenie, mischievous girl! Two little shoes of bright leather. Defaced and chewed at the toe; For never, in sunniest weather, A single step did they go. Ah ! through what windings and mazes Must those little busy feet stra}^ — Through paths all bordered with daisies, Or climbing the upland way ? Strange are the mysteries hidden In the heart's innermost fold, Causing the teardrops unbidden, When trifles like these we behold. TO THE BEREAVED, 95 Then tenderly gather the treasures, Shrine them in casket and urn ; They bring remembrance of pleasures That perhaps may never return. f LOVED them so, Then when the Elder Shepherd of the fold Came, covered with the storm and pale and cold, And begged for one of my sweet lambs to hold, I bade him go. He claimed the pet — A little fondling thing, that to my breast Clung always, either in quiet or unrest. I thought of all my lambs I loved him best ; And yet — and yet — I laid him down In those white shrouded arms, with bitter tears ; For some voice told me that in after years He should know naught of passion, grief, or fears, As I had known. 96 A mother's offering And yet again The Elder Shepherd came ; my heart grew faint ; He claimed another lamb, with sadder plaint — Another, she who, gentle as a saint, Ne'er gave me pain. Aghast I turned away! There sat she, lovely as an angel's dream, Her golden locks with sunlight all agleam, Her holy eyes with heaven in their beam. I knelt to pray. ''Is it Thy will? My Father, say, must this pet lamb be given ? O, Thou hast many such, dear Lord in heaven." And a soft voice said, "Nobly hast thou striven, But—' Peace, be still.' " O how I wept. An claspsed her to my bosom, with a wild And yearning love, my lamb, my pleasant child ! Her, too, I gave. The little angel smiled. And slept. TO THE BEREAVED. 97 "Go, go!" I cried, For once again that Shepherd laid his hand Upon the noblest of our household band; Like a pale specter. He took his stand Close to his side. And yet how wondrous sweet The look with which he heard my pas- sionate cry, "Touch not my lamb; for him, O let me die !" "A little while," He said, with smile and sigh, "Again to meet." Hopless I fell ; And when I rose, the light had burned so low, So faint, I could not see my darling go ; He had not bidden me farewell, but O ! I felt farewell More deeply far Than if my arms had compassed that slight frame, Though could I but have heard him call my name, "Dear mother!" But in heaven 'twill be the same. There burns my star! 98 A mother's offering He will not take Another lamb, I thought, for only one Of the dear fold is spared, to be my sun, My guide, my mourner, when this life is done: My heart would break. O with what thrill I heard Him enter; but I did not know (For it was dark) that he had robbed me so. The idol of my soul — he could not go — O heart be still ! Came morning. Can I tell How this poor frame its sorrowful tenant kept. For waking tears were mine, I sleeping wept; And days, months, years, that weary vigil kept, Alas, *' Farewell !" How often it is said, I sit and think, and wonder, too, some time. How it will seem when in that happier clime It never will ring out, like funeral chime, Over the dead. TO THE BEREAVED. 99 No tears ! no tears ! Will there a day come I shall not weep ? For I bedew my pillow in my sleep. Yes, yes, thank God ! no grief that clime shall keep. No weary years. Aye ! it is well : Well with my lambs and with their earthly guide ; There pleasant rivers wander they beside, Or strike sweet harps upon its silver tide — Aye ! it is well. Through the dreary day. They often come from glorious light to me; I can not feel their touch, their faces see, Yet my souls whispers, they do come to me. Heaven is not far away. 'Qa'H«0''tJ?S.«D' "I WOULD not have thee think of me as dead, But only passed a little out of sight ; Nor say through boundless darkness I have fled, But moved a little nearer to the light." loo A mother's offering By {^e ^\oT& of {\& l^iVer. fHROUGH the gray willows the bleak winds are raving Here on the shore, with its driftwood and sands ; Over the river the lilies are growing, Bathed in the sunshine of Orient lands ; Over the river, the wide, dark river Springtime and summer are blooming forever. Here, all alone, on the rocks I am sitting. Sitting and waiting — my comrades all gone — Shadows of mystery drearily flitting Over the surf with its sorrowful moan. Over the river, the strange, cold river ! Ah ! must I wait for the boatman for- ever? Wife and children and friends were around me, Labor and rest were as wings to* my soul ; Honor and love were the laurels that crowned me ; Little I recked how the dark waters roll ; But the deep river, the gray, misty river, All that I lived for has taken forever ! TO THE BEREAVED. lOI Silently came a black boat o'er the billows ; Stealthily grated the keel on the sand ; Rustling footsteps were heard through the willows ; There the dark boatman stood, waving his hand, Whisp'ring, " I come o'er the shadowy river ; She who is dearest must leave thee for- ever." Suns that were brightest and skies that were bluest Darkened and paled in the message he bore. Year after year went the fondest, the truest, Following that beckoning hand to the shore, Down to the river, the cold, grim river. Over whose waters they vanished forever. Yet not in visions of grief have I wandered ; Still have I toiled, though my ardors have flown ; Labor is manhood, and life is but squan- dered Dreaming vague dreams of the future alone. Yet from the tides of the mystical river. Voices of spirits are whispering ever. I02 A MOTHER'S OFFERING Lonely and old, in the dusk I am waiting Till the dark boatman, with soft, muffled oar. Glides o'er the waves, and I hear the keel grating, See the dim, beckoning hand on the shore, Wafting me over the welcoming river To gardens and homes that are shining forever ! ^sIap Land. t WONDERFUL place is the Land of In the kingdom of sleep, so fair ; Its ruler "Queen Silence" sits on the throne, And governs her subjects there. And the air is full of marvelous things, And wonders that only the dream-fairy brings. A wonderful land is the Land of Naps By the side of a silver sea, And over its billows of soft lullabies The children glide happily. Rocked in "sweet slumber" a safe little boat, On, on, in fanciful vision they float. TO THE BEREAVED. 1 03 Lifted Over. BY HBLEN HUNT JACKSON. ^S tender mother, guiding baby steps, When places come at which the tiny "S^ feet Would trip, lift up the little one in arms Of love, and set them down beyond the harm; So did our Father watch the precious boy, Led o'er the stones by me, who stumbled oft Myself, but led my darling on. He saw the sweet limbs faltering, and saw Rough ways before us, where my arms would fail, So reached from heaven, and lifting the dear child, Who smiled in leaving me, He put him down Beyond all hurt, beyond my sight, and bade Him wait for me ! Shall I not then be glad, And, thanking God, press on to overtake ? "Tis sweet, as year by year we lose Friends out of sight, in faith to muse How growls in Paradise our store?" I04 A MOTHER'S OFFERING f\ Little "©ead "prince. (Buried June i, 1873.) BY THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN." jSvER the happy mother's bed ^1?^ Gambol three children, loving and ^ gay,~ Earnest, strong, and delicate Fritz, Pretty baby Victoria. Two little princes, sans sword, sans crown, One little princess, infant sweet — In the mother's heart as rich and as full As any mother's in lane or street — They grow, three roses, love-rooted deep. Filling with perfume all their own The empty air, oft so sharp and keen, Of the lonely heights too near a throne. The palace windows stood open wide, The harmless windows ; and through them pass May winds, to the palace children dear As to cottage babies upon the grass. Out through the chamber runs Earnest bold; The mother follows, with careful mind, Fearless of fate, for a minute's space, Leaving the other two behind. TO THE BEREAVED. 105 Grand on the bed, like a mimic queen, Tiny Victoria gravely sits; While clasping closely his darling toy, Up to the casement climbs merry Fritz. It drops — his treasure! He leans and looks Twenty feet down to the stony road, Hear'st thou that shriek from the moth- er's lips? Hast thou no mercy, O God, O God? One ghastly moment he hangs in air, Irike a half-fledged bird from the nest's edge thrown. With innocent eyes of dumb surprise — Then falls — and the brief young life is done. Mother, poor mother! try to see Not the skeleton hand that thrust him there Out of sunshiny life into silent death. But the waiting angels in phalanx fair. O try to feel that the earth's hard breast Was the bosom of God which took him in — God, who knows all things to us unknown. From sorrow, sickness, peril, or sin. Io6 A MOTHER'S OFFERING O hear far off the low sound of tears, Dropping from many an eye like mine, As we look at our living children sweet, And our mother-hearts weep blood for thine. God comfort thee ! Under the robe of state That hides, but heals not, wounds throb- bing wild — Mayest thou feel the touch of one soft, dead hand — The child that will always remain a child, And when the long years shall have slipped away, And gray hairs come and thy pulse beats slow. May one little face shine star-like out O'er the dim descent thy feet must go ! Mother, poor mother ! 'Neath warm June rain Bear to the grave thy coffin small ; Oft children living are children lost ; But our children dead — ah, we keep them alir [The above lines were suggested by the fatal accident that befell the young prince, Frederick William, son of Prince I^ouis of Hesse, and the Princess Alice, daughter of Queen Victoria,— and shows how sorrow comes to the aching hearts in homes of royalty as well as to us in hum- ble life.] TO THE BEREAVED. 1 07 h]e(aVen. HERE the faded flowers shall freshen — Freshen never more to fade ; Where the shaded sky shall brighten — Brighten nevermore to shade ; Where the sunblaze never scorches; Where the starbeams cease to chill; Where no tempest stirs the echoes Of the wood, or wave or hill ; Where no shadows shall bewilder; Where life's vain parade is o'er; Where the sleep of sin is broken, And the dreamer dreams no more; Where the bond is never severed — Partings, claspings, sob, and moan, Midnight waking, twilight weeping. Heavy noontide — all are done ; Where the child has found its mother ; Where the mother finds her child; Where dear families are gathered That were scattered on the wild ; Where the hidden wound is healed ; Where the blighted life re-blooms; Where the smitten heart the freshness Of its buoyant youth resumes ; io8 A mother's offering Where we find the joy of loving, As we never loved before — lyoving on unchilled, unhindered, Loving on for evermore. To iy|^5- ®- ®- '^^^^le5. FROM MRS. JOHN HANCOCK. fOU have seen them 'mongst their romp- ing brothers. Baby girls, by many a household hearth. Sweeping, dusting, brushing, like small mothers, While around them went the racket and the mirth. Well, I 'm thinking of your little daughter, Whom my earthly eyes have never seen. How your hands have vainly reached and sought her Since the grass upon her grave was green ! Now, behind the sheltering walls of jasper, She is smiling with the angels there. With a brother on each side to clasp her, — Won so soon from earthly strife and care. TO THE BEREAVED. 1 09 How her happy heart is overflowing For those two dear little household mates ! How her tiny hands are beckoning, showing All the joy that on their coming waits ! Do the feet of little children patter As they tread the shining golden floor, Like the gentle, musical, soft clatter Of the summer rain against the door? With their singing, do they mix the laughter Which is sweetest music that we know ? Do they frolic in the great hereafter, Whence no echoes come, no voices flow? We shall know, dear, sad, and lonely mother : Though they come no more, we go to them; Earthly life we live glides onward to an- other. Rich with song and palm and diadem. We shall find them, though the rushing waters In the vale of shadows whelm us o'er ; We shall greet immortal sons and daughters 'Mid the splendors of the thither shore. no A MOTHER^ S OFFERING l^oW an /\n^el Lool<5. ^^«pOBIN, holding his mother's hand, ^ Says " Good-night " to the big folk all ; ^ Laughs with glee through the lighted hall; Then in his own crib, warm and deep, Rob is tucked for a long night's sleep. Gentle mother, with fond caress, Slips her hand through his soft brown hair; Thinks of his fortune all unknown, Speaks aloud in an earnest prayer : " Holy angels, keep watch and ward ! God's good angels, my baby guard!" '* Mamma, what is an angel like?" Asked the boy, in a wondering tone. " How will they look if they come here, Watching me, while I 'm all alone?" Half with shrinking and fear spoke he ; Answered the mother tenderly: " Prettiest faces ever were known, Kindest voices, and sweetest eyes." Robin, waiting for nothing more, Cried and looked with a pleased sur- prise — Love and trust in his eyes of blue : "I know, mamma! They 're just like you !" TO THE BEREAVED. Ill Uictor. BY W. H. VENABLE. fpJliHKN roses yielded up to death -^^ Their fragrant souls, and smiled, " Then was exhaled the dying breath Of him, our flower-like child. Ah ! sweeter than the violet frail Frost-slain in morn of May, And purer than the the snowdrop pale, In pallid sleep he lay. Did Heaven mock that pride of mine Which named him Victor? King? O Grave, the vanquishing was thine; O Death, we feel thy sting! Dead ! Cradled in a coffin ! Why This dire untimely doom? Why born, thus born so soon to die? Answer, thou cruel tomb. Pale puny hands, poor little feet, By grief caressed in vain. Fond baby heart that may not beat Against mine own again ; If these be sleeping and not dead, O whither, then, hath flown The helpless infant soul, through dread, Vast silences, alone? 112 A mother's offering May not the spirit pine to come Where we who know him are? His mother's breast is baby's home, Not some strange Bden far. Our eyes grow numb with tearless woe, Prayer swoons upon the tongue As to his lips of smiling snow Our loving kisses clung. The stars are stolid in the sky, The saints no message send; My lamentation and my cry To heedless void ascend. My heart, my weeping, bleeding heart Wails at the door of fate. And faints in darkness and apart, Bereft and desolate. I only find, where'er I grope, A cradle and a pall ; Find, at the gloomy verge of hope A yearning — that is all. An empty cradle and a lone. Small mound of chilly sod, O'er which I bow with human moan To move the heart of God. TO THE BEREAVED. I13 /\fter tl^e pUneral. BY EARL CRANSTON. jjWND is this home — this awful solitude ? ^B 'Tis like a vast mute waste; or wil- ^ derness, Where Awe broods o'er the silence and evokes Despair, and I am lost. Its fastnesses Environ me ; and here I sit, as lone As if sky-piercing palisades of oaks, Ten thousand deep, joined bark to bark, Did hold me in this stifling stillness, bound j While rocks whose plunging courses far outrun The deepest plumb of thought, beneath me lie. And make no overture of Liberty, Save through a grave-rift here and there, and these Hedged in by will Divine, forbidding 'scape In disembodiment. What means all this, That I but yesterday, so free — so free, And yet of liberty unconscious — free To love, be loved, embrace and be em- braced ; 8 114 So free to pour out all my soul in song ; To look for sunlight everywhere I roamed, And wander where I would find happiness ; So free to look into the beaming face Of any lovely child, and feel no twinge Of something burrowing within my soul — To-day, to find myself entombed ? And yet, These walls that hold and smother me, the same That then from gaze profane my Paradise Shut in ! These fetters, welded in the fires That warmed my spirit yesterday with joy ! Forged by the heat of Love's last longing look. Then chilled to hardness by the touch of Death ! What horrid dream is this ? I '11 rouse me. No, My will is gone. Dream on then, dreamer ; since 'T is but a dream, why, let it run ; no harm K'er comes of dreams, I '11 start up pres- ently. And laugh at all this horror haunting me. Alas ! I can not long deceive my heart. It is no dream. This, this is home — or was ; But O ! despoiled, dismantled, desolate ! TO THE BEREAVED. 1 15 And yet, how strange ! These are the walls intact ; The ornaments, the pictures, everything is here; The birds — but where their song ? ah, they mistake This gloom for nightfall ; or the loneliness Oppresses them, and chokes their voices down. Do they know? Do they miss him too? Sweet birds, I love your sadness better than your song. Hushed is the silvery voice whose ringing glee Was signal for your loudest choruses ; Ne'er will disturb you more the wooing hand Whose fond caress you always shyly shunned, But whose forgiveness ever sweetly sang Before your trembling hearts were still. Sad now, That you denied his loving touch? Too late! And here is Rover ; is he mourning too ? Come, fellow ! I would see your sad brown eyes. Yes, rest your head upon my lonely knee. Il6 A MOTHER^ S OFFERING Ah ! Rover, would that I had ever been As patient with the darling as were you ; Content, if he were glad, whate'er his whim — To send you panting after whirling hoop Bestride your back, or pluck your shaggy coat — And only sad, when he, grown tired of play. Would stamp his baby-foot and say ^'' go wa'^ Could you interpret words, as I your eyes, What cheer I might bestow ! I^ist, fellow, list! His tribute 't was to your obedience ; And beautiful it was as innocent ; — One glowing day in June, upon the beach He lay, and tossed the pebbles gleefully ; When suddenly from flying cloud the sun. Emerging, shone into his upturned eye. Quick rose, with kingly gesture, dimpled arm, And, like a Joshua, he bade the sun ^''Go wa'' — ^with mien expecting instant truce, His reasoning unspoken, yet was plain : " If great, black Rover heeds my mandate, then Why not the great white sun?" TO THE BEREAVED. II7 The angel boy ! All ! lie was full of cunning baby ways ; Nor nook, nor corner, greets my wandering eye. Nor path, nor journey of the twelvemonth gone. Nor month, nor day, nor week, in thought returns, Unconsecrated by some sweet surprise Of wondrous babyhood ; some miracle Of beauty, grace, or character evolved; A gamut of discovery that lured Our hearts to highest notes of ecstasy. Each new-found dimple was a well of joy That never filled with kisses ; every smile Was like an angel's, sweet and radiant ; Sun-dipped was every golden hair, and thrilled Electric every tiny finger's touch. His eyes, a sky of blue with heaven inside, Brought down before the sun had left his couch, And saw him vanquished, too, with every eve ; Then still shone on, with all their count- less mates In happy homes, until the stars peeped out — The waking of the child-host glorified. ii8 A mother's offering And do the bright child-eyes of earth and heaven Joint loving sentry hold o'er earthly homes The galaxy of earth to watch by day, Of heav'n by night ? The little ones below To slumber not until the little ones Above look out? Then, sure to wake be- times, Lest for a moment's space, the sacred realm Be left unguarded, when the mounting sun Compels the sky-relief to seek the shade, Th' inviting play-ground, 'neath the Tree of Life? New glory in the heavens ? Yes — new stars ; My two among the brightest you may search. Where else for eyes like his ? God knows what 's fit. fHAVK two little angels waiting for me On the beautiful banks of the crystal sea; Not impatiently wait my darlings there, For smiles light up their brows so fair ; And their little harps ring out so clear, So soothingly sweet to faith's listening ear, And they live in the smile of a Savior's love, Who so early called my darlings above. TO THE BEREAVED. II9 I have two little angels waiting for me On the beautiful banks of the crystal sea, Forever free from sorrow and pain, Spotless and pure from all earthly stain ; Never in erring paths to rove, Safe in the bosom of Infinite I^ove ; Evermore, evermore walking in light. These beautiful angels robed in white. I have two little angels waiting for me On the beautiful banks of the crystal sea ; When my weary heart is throbbing with pain. And I fain would clasp my darlings again, I '11 look away from this earthly strand To the beautiful fields of the ''better land;" I will think of the angels waiting there, And offer to God a thankful prayer. I have two little angels to welcome me When I, too, shall stand by the crystal sea ; When the Great Refiner his image may trace In the heart he has won by his saving grace, And in robes of Christ's own righteousness drest, My soul shall seek the home of the blest. On the beautiful banks of the crystal sea My darling, still waiting, shall welcome me. I20 A mother's offering ©one ©eforc. fHERK 'S a beautiful face in the silent air, Which follows me ever and near, With smiling eyes and amber hair, With voiceless lips, yet with breath of prayer. That I feel, but can not hear. The dimpled hand and ringlet of gold, Ivie low in a marble sleep; I stretch my arms for the clasp of old, But the empty air is strangely cold, And my vigil alone I keep. There 's a sinless brow with a radiant crown, And a cross laid down in the dust ; There 's a smile where never a shade comes now, And tears no more from those dear eyes flow, So sweet in their innocent trust. Ah well ! and summer is coming again. Singing her same old song; But O ! it sounds like a sob of pain, As it floats in the sunshine and the rain, O'er the hearts of the world's great throng. TO THE BEREAVED, 121 There 's a beautiful region above the skies, And I long to reach its shore; For I know I shall find my treasure there : The laughing eyes and amber hair Of the loved one gone before. ^afe-polded. BY CAROLINE LESLIE. fiT is hard when o'er the face We scarce can see for weeping — The little loving baby face — That last still shade comes creeping ; Full hard to close the tender eyes And fold the hands for sleeping. Yet when the w^orld our own would claim, It doth not greatly grieve us ; We calmly see, as days go by. Our little children leave us. And, smiling, heed not how the swift. Soft-footed years bereave us. O mother hearts ! I count you rich Beyond mere earth-possessing, Whose little babies never grow Away from your caressing ; Safe-folded in his tender arms Who gives again, with blessing. 122 A mother's offering "Philip* MV K^-^i' " Who bears upon his baby brow The round and top of sovereignty." fOOK at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my king! For round thee the purple shadow lies Of babyhood's royal dignities, I^ay on my neck thy tiny hand, With love's invisible scepter laden ; I am thine Esther to command Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, Philip, my king ! O, the day when thou goest wooing, Philip, my king! When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, And some gentle heart's bar undoing. Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there, Sittest love-glorified — rule kindly. Tenderly over thy kingdom fair ; For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, Philip, my king! Up from thy sweet mouth, up to thy brow, Philip, my king ! The spirit that there lies sleeping now May rise like a giant, and make men bow As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers. TO THE BEREAVED. 1 23 My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer^ lyct me behold thee in future years ! Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my king ! A wreath, not of gold, but palm, one day, Philip, my king! Thou, too, must tread, as we trod, a way. Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray; Rebels within thee and foes without Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious. Martyr, yet monarch ; till angels shout, As thou sittest at the feet of God victo- rious, '' Philip, the king !" Forgotten? No, we never do forget; We let the years go, wash them clean with tears. Leave them to bleach out in the open day, Or lock them careful by, like dead friends' clothes, Till we shall dare unfold them without pain ; But we forget not, never can forget. Dinah Mulock Craik. 124 ^ mother's offering On^ LHtle ©Url. BY CALEB DUNN. M HAVE a little curl of hair, ^^ As golden as the sunniest ray ; ^ No treasure with it can compare — Its beauty can not pass away. Close to my lips I press the prize — It may be weakness so to do — But something melting in my eyes Is the excuse I offer you. This little curl of golden hair Speaks to my heart of one who died — A blue-eyed boy, as sweet and fair As e'er invoked a father's pride. One summer's flowers above his bed Have sweetly bloomed and gone to rest Since last I held his little head Against my sad and aching breast. Above his sleep the snowy white Has softly gathered, like a crown, And hidden from my eyes' dim sight The winter grass-blades sere and brown ; But whether with the roses' red Or with the winter's drapery His little grave be garlanded, It is a lovely spot to me. TO THE BEREAVED. 1 25 There, wlien the shadows of the night Arise and drive the day afar, I see him, with his crown of light, Look down from heaven like a star. I see his beauteous smile enshrined In bright waves from the starry sea ; I hear his sweet voice in the wind That murmurs through each blossomed tree. And well I know that, could he leave His home in God's pure realm of bliss, He 'd come and round my forehead weave The beauty of an angel's kiss. You may pronounce my sorrow vain, And counsel me with kindest breath; But ^o you know a father's pain When his firstborn lies cold in death? To hear the last tones of a voice, The sweetest music to his ear; To feel the rarest of all joys — The richest gladness — disappear; To see the shadows close about The brightest ray that ever shone; To see the coffin-lid shut out The dearest idol he has known, — 126 A mother's offering This is the pain the father feels When death has made his hearthstone drear, When o'er the silent form he kneels To weep above his loved one's bier. So, surely, you '11 not call me weak Because I love this lock of hair — This curl which o'er my firstborn son Once fluttered in the summer air. (^f^all We V^nowi Our |-riend5 in BY SARAH T. BOLTON. fB can not hear the fall of gentle feet Beyond the river they may cross no more, Nor see familiar faces, angel sweet, Through the dim distance, on the other shore. Where are the friends, companions, down the years, Who shared our care and labor, gain and loss; Who wept with us, in sorrow, bitter tears; Who knelt beside us at the Savior's cross ? TO THE BEREAVED. 1 27 Some were a-weary of the world, and old, And some had scarcely passed meridian prime ; And some were gathered to the blessed fold In all the beauty of life's morning time. A few had climbed the heights not many gain, And battled nobly for the good and true ; Many wrought humbly on life's common plane ; But all accomplished what they came to do. And as we walked together by the way, They turned and left us — left us one by one. Love followed weeping, but they might not stay For all her pleading, when their work was done. Shall we not meet again, or soon, or late ? Meet at the entrance to the final goal? Did the Pale Angel at the shadovv^ gate Undo the tie that bound us soul to soul ? Nay, by the holy instincts of our love, By every hope humanity holds dear, I trust in God to meet my treasure-trove, Tenderly loving, as we parted here. 12$ A mother's offering It must be so, if deathless mind retain The noblest attributes that God has given ; L^ove, hope, and memory count but little gain, If what they gain on earth be lost in heaven. And if the human love, that underlies All that is true and good in man's es- tate- All that remains to us of paradise — Were lacking there, heaven would be desolate. Nay, as the rich man knew on Abraham's breast The whilom beggar at his palace gate; As Saul knew Samuel, when, at God's be- hest. He came to warn the monarch of his fate; As Moses and Klias, heavenly bright. Were recognized upon the mount sub- lime. Shall we know our beloved in the light That lies beyond the shores of death and time. TO THE BEREAVED. 1 29 BY W. C. BENNETT. f'^ ^ THOSE little, those little blue shoes ! Those shoes that no little feet use ! O the price were high That those shoes would buy, Those little, blue, unused shoes ! For they hold the small shape of feet That no more their mother's eyes meet ; That by God's good will, Years since grew still. And ceased from their totter so sweet. And O, since that baby slept, So hushed, how the mother has kept. With a tearful pleasure, That dear little treasure. And o'er them thought and wept ! For they mind her evermore Of a patter along the floor; And blue eyes she sees Look up from her knees With the look that in life they wore. As they lie before her there. There babbles from chair to chair, A little sweet face That 's a gleam in the place. With its little gold curls of hair. 1^6 A mother's offering Then, O wonder not that her heart From all else would rather part, Than those tiny blue shoes That no little feet use, And whose sight makes such fond tears start. /\llce ©ary'^ (i)WeeU5{ "poem. |MONG the beautiful pictures ^^ That hang on Memory's wall Is one of a dim old forest. That seemeth the best of all ; Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe ; Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant hedge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge ; Not for the vines on the upland, Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslips. It seemeth to me the best. I once had a little brother, With eyes that were dark and deep ; In the lap of that old dim forest. He lieth in peace, asleep : TO THE BEREAVED. I3I Light as the down of the thistle, Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers — The summers of long ago ; But his feet on the hills grew weary. And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly his pale arms folded My neck in a meek embrace, As the light of immortal beauty Silently covered his face ; And when the arrows of sunset lyodged in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty, Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all. " Skk, I place in thy hand these lilies, Like those the angel brought. For the day of annunciation, And I have but this one glad thought ; Pressing my kisses down on thy death sweet face, I say. From my heart of hearts, my darling, I give thee joy this day." 132 A MOTHER'S OFFERING ©Vildren in FjeaVen. FROM REV. E. H. BICKERSTETH'S "YESTERDAY, TO-DAY, AND FOREVER." BABE in glory is a babe forever. Perfect as spirits, and able to pour forth ^ Their glad hearts in the tongues that angels use, These nurslings, gathered in God's nursery, Forever grow in loveliness and love ; Growth is the law of all intelligence, Yet can not pass the limits which define Their being. They have never fought the fight, Nor borne the heat and burden of the day, Nor staggered underneath the weary cross. Infancy Is one thing, manhood one. And babes, though part Of the true archetypal house of God Built on the heavenly Zion, are not now. Nor will be ever, massive rocks, rough hewn, Or ponderous corner-stones, or fluted shafts Of columns, or far-shadowing pinnacles; But rather as the delicate lily-work By Hiram wrought for Solomon of old, Enwreathed upon the brazen chapiters, Or flowers of lilies round the molten sea — Innumerable flowers thus bloom and blush in heaven. TO THE BEREAVED. 1 33 The one who nestled in my breast had seen All of earth's year except the winter snows ; Spring, summer, autumn, like sweet dreams, had smiled On her. Eva— or Living — was her name ; A bud of life folded in leaves and love ; The dewy morning star of summer days ; The golden days of fireside happy hours ; The little ewe lamb nestling by our side ; The dove whose cooing echoed in our hearts ; The sweetest chord upon our harp of praise ; The quiet spring, the rivulet of joy. -tsp-jB/'afsai' ©randf(atl|er'5 "pet. felS is the room where she slept Only a year ago — Quiet, and carefully swept ; Blinds and curtains like snow. There, by the bed, in the dusty gloom, She would kneel, with her tiny clasped hands, and pray; Here is the little white rose of a room, With the fragrance fled away ! 134 ^ mother's offering Nelly, grandfather's pet, With her wise little face — I seem to hear her yet Singing about the place ; But the crowds roll on and the streets are drear, And the world seems hard, with a bitter doom, And Nelly is singing elsewhere, and here Is the little white rose of a room. Why, if she stood just there As she used to do, With her long, light yellow hair And her eyes of blue — If she stood, I say, at the edge of the bed, And ran to my side with a living touch. Though I know she is quiet and buried and dead^ I should not wonder much ; For she was so young, you know — Only seven years old — And she loved me, loved me so ! Though I was gray and old. And her face was so wise and so sweet to see. And it still looked living when she lay dead. As she used to plead for mother and me By the side of that very bed! TO THE BEREAVED. 1 35 I wonder, now, if she Knows I am standing here, Feeling, wherever she be. We hold the place so dear? It can not be she sleeps too sound In her little nightgown dressed, Not to hear my footsteps sound In the room where she used to rest. I have felt hard fortune's stings, And battled in doubt and strife, And never thought much of things Beyond this human life ; But I can not think my darling died lyike great strong men, with their prayers untrue — Nay, rather she sits at God s own side, And sings as she used to do . Stili. on the lips of all we question, The finger of God's silence lies. Shall the lost hands in ours be folded? Will the shut eyelids ever rise? O, friends, no proof beyond this yearning. This outreach of our souls we need ; God will not mock the hope he giveth ; No love he prompts shall vainly plead. John G. Whittier. 136 A mother's offering Se.by ti)ead. CONTRIBUTED BY REV. S. O. ROYAL. two little hands lie folded to rest, Folded over a still little breast, Still as the wings of a bird on her nest. Two little feet will patter no more, Never will toddle from table to door. All of their wanderings so quickly are o'er ! Sweet little eyelids fallen so lightly, Hiding the eyes that laughed so brightly, Pale little lips just open so slightly. Some one's whole joy lies casketed. All the bright things are done and said Now, of her darling, her baby that 's dead. Some pretty toys will be carefully kept. And the dear cradle where baby slept, Will be an altar where tears oft are wept. Worn little shoes will often be kissed ; Some sweet voice will often be missed, When at night mamma waking, says '* List !" For the glad light of the home has fled, And all the bright things are done and said. Now, of baby that 's cofiined and dead ! TO THE BEREAVED. 137 '' ^HE loved and lost !" why do we call W them lost ? ^ Because we miss them from our on- ward road? God's unseen angel o'er our pathway crossed, Looked on us all, and loving them the most, Straightway relieved them from life's weary load. They are not lost ; they are within the door That shuts out loss and every hurtful thing — With angels bright, and loved ones gone before, In their Redeemer's presence evermore, And God himself their Lord and Judge and King. And this we call a " loss ;" O selfish sorrow Of selfish hearts ! O we of little faith ! Let us look round some argument to bor- row Why w^e in patience should await the mor- row That surely must succeed this night of death. 138 A MOTHER'S OFFERING Aye, look upon this dreary desert plain, The thorns and thistles whereso'er we turn, What trials and what tears, what wrongs and wrath, What struggles and what strife the jour- ney hath ! They have escaped from these, and lo ! we mourn! Ask the poor sailor, when the wreck is done. Who, with his treasures, strove the shore to reach, While with the raging waves he battled on, Was it not joy, where every joy seemed gone, To see his loved ones landed on the beach ? A poor wayfarer, leading by the hand A little child, had halted by the well To wash from off her feet the clinging sand, And tell the tired boy of that bright land Where, this long journey passed, they longed to dwell. TO THE BEREAVED. 1 39 When lo! the I^ord, who many mansions had, Drew near and looked upon the suffer- ing twain, Then pitying spake, "Give me the little lad; In strength renewed, and glorious beauty clad, I'll bring him with me when I come again." Did she make answer, selfishly and wrong, '' Nay but the woes I feel he, too, must share!" O, rather, bursting into grateful song, She went her way rejoicing, and made strong To struggle on, since she was freed from care. We will do likewise; death has made no breach In love and sympathy, in hope and trust ; No outward sign or sound our ears can reach, But there 's an inward, spiritual speech, That greets us still, though mortal tongues be dust. I40 A MOTHER'S OFFERING It bids US do the work that they laid down — Take up the song where they broke off the strain ; So journeying till we reach the heavenly town, Where are laid up our treasures and our crown, And our lost loved ones will be found again. I5 it Well With the ©hil^? "And she answered, It is well."— 2 Kings iv, 26. fKS ! all is well, though from thy longing gaze The darling of thy heart hath passed away ! The anxious eye of fond maternal love No more shall rest upon his cherub face ; No more the joyous laugh, the prattling tones Of infant mirth, shall greet thy listening ear ; The little lips, so often prest to thine. No more in beaming loveliness shall smile ; And from the empty crib there comes no sound — No gentle breathing from the slumbering one — To tell thy child is there. TO THE BEREAVED. I41 O ! what a sense Of anguished loneliness comes o'er the heart As oft thine eyes upon the garments fall Wrought with such pride for him ! Can it be well That ne'er again the absent father's arms Shall clasp the beauteous boy ; that fancy's eye Shall trace no more upon his smiling face The faint resemblance of the cherished dead; That the fair picture hope's bright pencil drew In richest coloring, is washed out in tears? Yes ; all is well ! O, lift thine eyes above ! What can a mother's fondest wishes ask For her lost darling like the bliss of heaven? And thou must go to him! May the same robe That made him spotless in the sight of Heaven — The costly robe a dying Savior wrought — Be cast around thee too ! and when the ties That bind thee now to earth are torn and rent, May every little voice that mingled here In sweet communion round your happy hearth, Unite to swell the ceaseless choir of heaven ! s. w. c. Zanesville, 1 841. 142 A mother's offering f'HERE 'S a little drawer in my chamber, ' Guarded with tenderest care, Where the dainty clothes are lying That my darling shall never wear. And there, while the hours are waning, Till the house is all at rest, I sit and fancy a baby Close to my aching breast. My darling's pretty white garments ! I wrought them, sitting apart. While his mystic life was throbbing Under my throbbing heart. And often my happy dreaming Breaks in a little song, Like the murmur of birds at brooding. When the days are warm and long. I finished the dainty wardrobe, And the drawer was almost full With robes of the finest muslin, And robes of the whitest wool. I folded them all together, With a rose for every pair. Smiling and saying, **Gem fragrant. Fit for my prince to wear." TO THE BEREAVED. 1 43 Ah ! the radiant summer morning, So full of a mother's joy ! " Thank God, he is fair and perfect — My beautiful new-born boy!" Let him wear the pretty white garments I wrought while sitting apart ; I