She sleeps, but the soft breath
No longer stirs the golden hair,
The robber hand of death
Has stolen thither unaware;
The lovely edifice
Is still as beautiful and fair, But mournfully we miss
The gentle habitant that sojourned there.
With steady pace he crept
To the guest-chamber where it lay
That angel thing-and slept,
And whispers it to come away;
He broke the fairy lute
That light with laughter used to play
And left all dull and mute
The silver strings that tinkled forth so gay.
Then with his finger cold
He shut the glancing window too; With fringe of drooping gold
He darkened the small panes of blue.
Sheer from the marble floor
He swept the flowers of crimson hue;
He closed the ivory door,
And o'er the porch the rosy curtain drew.
The angel-guest is gone,
Upon the spoiler's dark wing borne ;
The road she journeys on
Winds evermore, without return.
To ruin and decay
The fairy palace now must turn,
For the sun's early ray
Upon its walls and windows shall not play,
Nor light its golden roof to-morrow morn.
Leave God to order all thy ways,
And hope in Him, whate'er betide;
Thou'lt find Him in the evil days
Thy all-sufficient strength and guide;
Who trusts in God's unchanging love,
Builds on the rock that nought can move..
He knows when joyful hours are best,.
He sends them as he sees it meet;
When thou hast borne the fiery test.
And art made free from all deceit,
He comes to thee all unaware,
And makes thee own His loving care.
Sing, pray, and swerve not from His ways,
But do thine own part faithfully,
Trust His rich promises of grace,
So shall they be fulfilled in thee;
God never yet forsook at need
The soul that trusted Him indeed.
My rest is in heaven, my rest is not here,
Then why should I murmur, though trials are near,
Be hushed my sad spirit, the worst that can come
But shortens thy journey, and hastens thee home.
With hope in my breast, and my Bible in hand,
I'll march on in haste through an enemy's land,
The road may be rough, but it cannot be long,
And I'll smooth it with hope, and I'll cheer it with song-
The rose that's wet with summer rain,
Or filled with early dew,
Sheds richer perfume o'er again,
And glows with lovelier hue.
The pearly drops that light within
Its leafy chalice rest,
But fresher beauties for it win,
Its fragrant charms attest.
So hearts bowed down with weight and care,
Or crushed with bitter grief,
Show clearer what their virtues are,
While waiting for relief;
Each tender pang is sweet that springs
From hearts by sorrow riven;
If on its parting breath it brings
Some dearer hope of Heaven.
And trusting and fearless
She stands by the bier.
Her voice is unbroken,
As, lifting her head,
She turns to the living,
From one that is dead:
"Dear mother, you told us
That God was on high,
And his arms would enfold us
Whenever we die.
And father, I heard you
Tell uncle last night,
Your child was an angel,
In raiment of white:
Then why all this weeping,
This sorrow and pain?
Our Willie is sleeping
To waken again."
With the voice of a prophet,
The look of a seer,
Her words of rebuking
Enchained every ear:
The sobs came no longer,
The eyes knew a balm,
The parents were stronger,
The children were calm.
'Neath the shade of a willow
They laid him to rest, The sod for his pillow, A rose on his breast; And they learned from his going
One lesson of worth
There are angels in heaven,
And angels on earth.
THE CHILD AND THE MOURNERS.
A little child, beneath a tree
Sat and chanted cheerily
A little song, a pleasant song,
Which was she sang it all day long-
"When the wind blows, the blossoms fall,
But a good God reigns over all."
There passed a lady by the way,
Moaning in the face of day;
There were tears upon her cheek,
Grief in her heart too great to speak;
Her husband died but yester-morn,
And left her in the world forlorn.
She stopped and listened to the child,
That looked to Heaven, and, singing, smiled
And saw not, for her own despair,
Another lady, young and fair,
Who, also passing, stopped to hear
The infant's anthem ringing clear.
For she but a few sad days before,
Had lost the little babe she bore;
And grief was heavy at her soul,
As that sweet memory o'er her stole,
And show'd how bright had been the past,
The present drear and overcast.
And as they stood beneath the tree,
Listening, soothed, and placidly,
A youth came by, whose sunken eyes
Spake of a load of miseries;
And he, arrested like the twain,
Stopp'd to listen to the strain.
Death had bow'd the youthful head
Of his bride beloved, his bride unwed:
Her marriage robes were fitted on,
Her fair young face with blushes shone,
|