“My sheltering arms can clasp you all,
    My poor deserted throng;
  Cling as you used to cling to her
    Who sings the angel’s song. 
  Begin, sweet ones, the accustomed strain,
    Come, warble loud and clear;
  Alas, alas! you’re weeping all,
    You’re sobbing in my ear;
  Good night; go, say the prayer she taught,
    Beside your little bed. 
  The lips that used to bless you there,
    Are silent with the dead. 
  A father’s hand your course may guide
    Amid the storms of life,
  His care protect those shrinking plants
    That dread the storm of strife;
  But who, upon your infant hearts,
    Shall like that mother write? 
  Who touch the strings that rule the soul? 
    Dear smitten flock, good night!”

Who can forget a mother, or lose those impressions which her death made upon our deeply stricken hearts?  None,—­not even the wretch who has brutalized all the feelings of natural affection.  The memory of a mother’s death is as fadeless as the deep impress of a mother’s love upon our hearts.  As often as we resort to her grave we must leave behind the tribute of our tears.  Who can read the following beautiful lines of Cowper, and—­if the memory of a sainted mother is awakened by them,—­not weep?

  “My mother!  When I learned that thou wast dead,
  Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? 
  Hovered thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son,
  Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun! 
  Perhaps thou gay’st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
  Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—­
  Ah, that maternal smile! it answers—­yes! 
  I heard the bell toll on the burial day,
  I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
  And, turning from my nurs’ry window, drew
  A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! 
  But was it such?  It was.  Where thou art gone. 
  Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
  May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
  The parting word shall pass my lips no more!”

The death of children is a great bereavement of home.  Behold that little blossom withered in its mother’s arms!  See those tears which flood her eyes as she bends in her deep grief over the grave of her cherished babe!  Go, fond parents, to that little mound, and weep!  It is well to do so; it is well for thee in the twilight hour to steal around that hallowed spot, and pay the tribute of memory to your little one, in flooding tears.  There beneath those blooming flowers which the hand of affection planted, it sweetly sleeps.  It bids adieu to all the scenes and cares of life.  It just began to taste the cup of life, and turned from its ingredients of commingled joy and sorrow, to a more peaceful clime.  Cold now is that little heart which once beat its warm pulses so near to thine; hushed is now that sweet voice that once breathed music to your soul.  Like the folding up of the rose, it passed away; that beautiful bud which bloomed and cheered your heart, was transplanted ere the storm beat upon it:—­