THE DYING MOTHER.
"How sweet to gaze upon thy placid brow,
My child! my child! like some unfolding bud
Of stainless snow-drop. Ah, how sweet to catch
Thy gentle breath upon my cheek, and feel
The bright redundance of thy silken hair,
My beautiful first-born. Life seems more fair
Since thou art mine. How soon amid its flowers
Thy little feet will gambol by my side,
My own pet-lamb. And then to train thee up
To be an angel, and to live for God—
O glorious hope!"
Fast fell the tears of joy
As the young mother spake.
But deep within,
A foe was busy at the seat of life,
And other language than her own fond hopes
Was traced by dire disease. A hollow voice
In midnight visions warn'd her of the tomb.
The surge roll'd heavy, yet there was a Rock
On which her soul found rest when the frail flesh
Wasted away.
"The cup my Father gives,
Shall I not drink it?"
So she bow'd her down,
While the new tie that bound her to the earth
So tenderly, was cut—then stretch'd her hand
