I've lost my little May at last! She perished in the spring, A marble tablet at her head, I would that she were back again, I know that she is gone away, I wake the children up at dawn, And say a simple prayer, And draw them round the morning meal, I see a little chair apart, And memory fills the vacancy, As time will never more! I sit within my room and write, And then I turn and look for her, I drop my idle pen and hark, And catch the faintest sound; She must be playing hide-and-seek In shady nooks around; She 'll come and climb my chair again, And peep my shoulder o'er; I hear a stifled laugh — but no, She cometh never more! I waited only yesternight, Before she went to bed; Forgetting she had gone before, In slumbers soft and sweet: A monument above her head, And violets at her feet! R. H. STODDARD. LINKS IN THE HEAVENLY CHAIN. THERE is something pleasing in this fact: that every infant that you lose is a link that binds you to the grave on the one hand, and a link also that binds you to eternity on the other. A portion of yourself has taken possession of the tomb, to remind you that you must lie down there. A soul that was related to yourself has taken possession of eternity, to remind you that you must enter there. Our bodies are, through our infants, in communion with the dust; and our spirits, through theirs, with the everlasting throne. We are so disposed to strike our roots into this fading and fainting earth, that it becomes mercy on the part of God to send those chastisements, which loosen our affections from a world doomed to flame. Each infant that we lose is a tie (holy and happy truth!) less to bind us to this world, and a tie more to bind our hearts to that better world where our infants have preceded us. It is thus God gradually loosens the tree before it falls. Death thus loses half its pain before it overtakes us. Happy truth, if we realize it! Happy lesson, if we feel it! Good and gracious is that Father, who thus preaches to His people from the infant's bier, when they will not learn the lesson which they need from His ambassadors in the pulpit! THE MINISTERING ANGEL. MOTHER, has the dove that nestled And in darkness gone to rest? And when, Night's dark shadows fleeing, Low thou bendest thee in prayer, MRS. EMILY JUDSON THE OPEN WINDOW. THE old house by the lindens I saw the nursery windows The large Newfoundland house-dog They walked not under the lindens, They played not in the hall; But shadow, and silence, and sadness Where hanging over all. The birds sang in the branches, But the voices of the children Will be heard in dreams alone! |