THINK THAT YOUR BABE IS THERE. YE who mourn Whene'er yon vacant cradle, or the robes Your treasure to His arms,whose changeless care To And when glad faith doth catch Some echo of celestial harmonies, Archangels' praises, with the high response Of cherubim, and seraphim, O think - Your babe is there! MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. "I SHALL GO TO HIM, BUT HE SHALL NOT RETURN TO ME." WHILE sickness rent thine infant frame, And changed the burden of our prayer: May He who took thee to the blest, But make thee our forerunner there! THOUGHT AT A CHILD'S GRAVE. 'Tis the work Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer, The fountain that, once loosed, must flow forever, WILLIS. THE ONLY CHILD. PRETTY boy! He was my only child; how fair he looked, BARRY CORNWALL. SOWING IN TEARS. STRAIGHT and still the baby lies, No more smiling in his eyes, Neither tears nor wailing cries. Smiles and tears alike are done: He has need of neither one Only I must weep alone. Tiny fingers, all too slight, Nights and days of weary pain, Crossed upon a silent breast, They shall ne'er unfolded be, Never! O, the hopeless sound I forget the shining crown, Yearning sore, I only know Selfish heart, that thou shouldst prove So unworthy of the love Which thine idol doth remove! Blinded eyes, that cannot see, O! my Father, loving Lord! I will yield me to Thy will; Though my mother-heart shall ache, And I know I yet shall own, Sheaves of joy around Thy throne ! DEATH AND THE MOTHER. DEATH to the mother said, "Thou canst not keep the baby still, let me ! Thou mark'st with pain his gasping, feverish breath; With one long kiss I set it free, And on his brow the signet write Oft thou dost strive to lay In smoothness down his golden hair: let me ! Nay, weep not, that his toilet I would make, For know'st thou not, earth-flowers as frail as this Were better closed against life's chilling dew? The sheet no more thou 'lt fold, Above his dimpled limbs over and o'er; So statue like, inanimate and cold, They will lie bare no more! The form that holds thy baby to His breast Thou wilt not look to see! Nor hear'st the soft voice breaking through his rest, 'Suffer the little one to come to Me!' |