A cry of joy is trembling on her lips,
For there the husband and the father stood.
She stretched her eager arms to take the boy,
But in the movement caught the father’s eye
Where horror sat, and told the dreadful tale
He dared not trust his quivering lips to speak. "My boy is dead," she cried; “my boy,
my boy!”
And caught him wildly to her bursting heart.
Cold on her bosom fell the little head
Which had been pillowed there so oft in sleep,—
And as she raised the frosty lid which veiled
The violet eye beneath that lately laughed,
So deep a groan escaped her pallid lips
The guilty husband shuddered as he heard.
“Too late,” he muttered in a husky tone,
And like an image of despair he stood,
Until she called him weeping to her side,
And murmured in a voice half choked with sobs:
“Nay, not too late, my husband, not too late:
God takes the child in mercy and in love,
To save the father. Shall it not be so?
Say by the love we bore this precious child,
Our own no longer—shall it not be so?”
The answer came, so low she scarcely heard,
But ’twas enough, and she looked up and smiled!
SIGHS ON MORTALITY.
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE?
Why do we mourn? why do we sigh?
We who may to-morrow lie
With folded hands and death-sealed eye?
A brave and gallant heart I knew:
Like some young sturdy oak he grew
Nursed by the sun, refreshed by dew.
His hopes were bright and high their aim:
Above reproach or fear of shame
None ever lightly spoke his name.
He left our cottage blithe and gay,
And as he left we heard him say,
“I will return at close of day.”
We watched him as he passed along,
He was so manly, brave and strong,
Oh, was the pride we cherished wrong?
We thought of him as one designed
To bless and elevate mankind,—
And it was well that we were blind!
We did not see the gathering frown,—
But long before the sun went down,
A dreadful rumor filled the town.
They told us gently he was dead,—
I would not credit what they said:
But when I knew it reason fled.
I woke to real life once more;
My dream of happiness was o’er—
I stood upon a desert shore.
All day I heard the billows moan,
All night I answered groan with groan,
For I was desolate and lone.
There came no message o’er the sea,
No message from the lost to me,
And I repined at God’s decree.
The bolt was spared—and o’er my head
The bow of mercy shone instead,
And I at last was comforted.
Now when the billows rage and roar,
I think it shortly will be o’er,—
’Tis calm upon the other shore.
I look at Time as one who sees
A pale leaf floating on the breeze
Amid a grove of noble trees.
