THE INFANT IN HEAVEN.
Where death, in yonder burial ground
His general harvest keeps,
Beside a small and verdant mound
A lonely mother weeps.
Upon the glittering turf she sits,
Like one in mournful dreams,
The trusting bird around her flits,
So motionless she seems;
In attitude of one whose mind
Implores a word of cheer,
Who e'en unto the whispering wind
Inclines an anxious ear.
She sees by more than fancy's light
The pale, cold face below,
Whose infant roses were so bright
A few sad days ago.
Meanwhile, beyond the curtaining skies,
The lost one finds her rest,
And leans, with love-illumined eyes,
Upon an angel's breast.
Whilst angel-sisters deck her brow
With their immortal flowers,
And lulling music whispers low
Through the celestial bowers.
A nursling of the heavens, she lives
In glory's endless bloom;
But nature's sacred tie survives
The passage of the tomb:
For list! what does the loving breeze
Unto the mother speak?
And see a sunbeam through the trees
Hath kissed the mourner's cheek!
O weeping parent! could'st thou read
The symbols round thee given,
Thy gladdened heart would surely heed
These messages from heaven!
CHILDREN SING.
Who shall sing, if not the children?
Did not Jesus die for them?
May they not, with other jewels,
Sparkle in his diadem ?
Why to them were voices given?
Bird-like voices, soft and clear-
Why, unless the song of heaven
They begin to practice here?
There's a choir of infant songsters,
White-robed, round the Savior's throne,
Angels chose, and waiting, listen!
Ŏ, 'tis sweeter than their own!
Faith can hear the rapturous choral,
When her ear is upward turned;
Is not this the same perfected,
Which upon the earth they learned?
In some rude spot, where vulgar herbage grows,
If chance a violet rear its purple head,
The careful gardener moves it ere it blows,
To thrive and flourish in a nobler bed.
Such was thy fate, dear child,
Thy opening such!
Pre-eminence in early bloom was shown,
For earth too good, perhaps,
And loved too much,
Heaven saw, and early marked thee for its own!
BABY'S SHOES.
They're very dainty little things,
With bow and buckle bright;
And fitted to dear little feet
So soft and smoth and white;
And all the children eager rush
To tell the wondrous news,
That our baby hath short clothes
And pretty little shoes.
Why is it that my timid heart
Is full of anxious fears,
And all unconsciously my eyes
Glisten with blinding tears?
It is that up to this my babe
Lay on a loving breast,
To which he ever eager turned
For nourishment and rest.
But little shoes, ye bid me think ̧
That from this very day
I send another pilgrim forth
Upon life's weary way,
Into the world of sin and care,
Its struggling and its strife,
Until with Job his soul may wish
It never had known life.
"T was just two years ago I put
On Katy's little feet
Such shoes as these, with fond caress, And kisses warm and sweet: Things just as fragile as these are,
And not a bit more stout;
Yet she had joined the angel band
Ere they were quite worn out.
Ah! many a mother's bitter tears
On little shoes are shed,
Relics of household treasures gone,
Idols among the dead.
Whether this babe reach man's estate,
Or soon his course be run,
I only ask for grace to say,
Father, thy will be done!"
THREE LITTLE GRAVES.
Three little graves! Talk not of sympathy— 'T were vain for human clay
To speak of consolation
To those weary hearts to-day.
Warm words that lips could fashion,
Can but mock the woe
Reigning in that stricken household,
Where, not long ago,
Echoed happy childish voices
All the livelong day,
Till an angel came from Heaven,
Bearing them away;—
Folding one in her white pinions,
Whispering at the door-
"These are gems too bright for earth,
I must gather more!"
So she lingered on the threshold,
Oh! so white and chill-
Saying softly, "One more darling,
Gentle mother, still."
How she clasps it! Now she's pleading,
Let the little baby come
We will fold our wings around her,
Bear her safely home
We will keep her, oh, so pure,
Spotless undefiled
Mother, see your angel band,
Yet another child!"
Then the white wings softly rustled,
And the low voice said-
"Mother, let your darlings sleep,
Do not call them dead."
So they made these little graves;
Let the sunshine fall,
With its golden haze upon them,
Bright funereal pall,
Lay the crimson autumn leaves
On the little graves,
While above the bending willow
Sadly, softly waves.
Anguished hearts, bereft and lonely,
In the angels' keeping
Are your three lost ones to-night-
No, not dead, but sleeping!
Tribulation means threshing, and Trench, in his excellent little treatise on the study of words, has carried out the figure, showing that it is only by threshing us that God separates the wheat from the chaff. Here is a precious little morsel from the German of Julius Sturm, which will speak touchingly to many a heart that has been put into the furnace of affliction.
"Pain's furnace heat within me quivers,
God's breath upon the flame doth blow,
And all my heart in anguish shivers,
And trembles at the fiery glow:
And yet I whisper-As God will!
And in his hottest fire, hold still.
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