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A MOTHER'S LAMENT OVER HER DEAD IN.
How can I weep? the tear of pain
But one hath whisper'd, Love! to thee,
ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT. AND this is death! how cold and still,
And yet how lovely it appears! Too cold to let the gazer smile,
And yet too beautiful for tears. The sparkling eye no more is bright,
The cheek hath lost its roselike red; And yet it is with strange delight
I stand and gaze upon the dead.
But when I see the fair wide brow,
Half shaded by the silken hair, That never look'd so fair as now,
When life and health were laughing there, I wonder not that grief should swell So wildly upward in the breast, And that strong passion once rebel, That need not, cannot be suppress'd.
I wonder not that parents' eyes
In gazing thus grow cold and dim, That burning tears and aching sighs
Are blended with the funeral hymn; The spirit hath an earthly part,
That weeps when earthly pleasure flies, And heaven would scorn the frozen heart That melts not when the infant dies.
And yet why mourn? that deep repose
Shall never more be broke by pain; Those lips no more in sighs unclose,
Those eyes shall never weep again. For think not that the blushing flower
Shall wither in the churchyard sod, 'T was made to gild an angel's bower
Within the paradise of God.
Once more I gaze-and swift and far
Move up thy pathway in the sky: The star hath rays serene and bright,
But cold and pale compared with thine; For thy orb shines with heavenly light, With beams unfading and divine.
Then let the burthen'd heart be free,
The mournful beauty of the dead;
To heaven no darkening stains of sin; And only breathed life's morning airs Before its noonday storms begin.
Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
Although thy heart hath ceased to beat, My memory warmly treasures yet
Thy features calm and mildly sweet; But no, that look is not the last,
We yet may meet where seraphs dwell, Where love no more deplores the past,
Nor breathes that withering word-farewell. W. B. PEABODY.
THE father sat and watch'd his boy,
Fled was the rosy light of joy,
And faded his young brow;
And yet he linger'd still-at fits,
What soothes the little sufferer now?
Ah! music pours its strain,-
His pale cheek flush'd with joy;
The organ past—and all forgot
But the young sufferer knew the spot,
And ever, as it took its round,
His heart was soothed with that sweet sound.
But ah! glad strains, and tender cares,
Soon torn from all sweet sounds, he shares,
And, with a cold, and breaking heart,
He takes him to his tomb-and then,
But not one tear will flow:
What stirs him from his deep despair,
In every note-in every tone,
And thoughts of tenderness and love
A world so sad and brief;
THE CHRISTIAN'S JOY AMIDST SUFFERINGS.
THE children of God are not called to so sad a life as the world imagines; besides what is laid up for them in heaven, they have, even here, their rejoicings and songs in their distresses, as those prisoners had their psalms even at midnight, after their stripes, and in their chains, before they knew of a sudden deliverance. (Acts xvi. 25.) True, there may be a darkness within, clouding all the matter of their joy, but even that darkness is the seed-time of after-joy light is sown in that darkness, and shall spring up; and not only shall they have a rich crop at full harvest, but even some first fruits of it here, in pledge of the harvest.
And this they ought to expect, and to seek after with minds humble and submissive as to the measure and time of it, that they may be partakers of spiritual joy, and may by it be enabled to go patiently, yea, cheerfully, through the tribulations and temptations that lie in their way homeward. And for this end they ought to endeavour after a more clear discerning of their interest in Christ, that they may know they partake of Him and 20,