THE MOURNER COMFORTED.
"My boy was beautiful, and he is dead!
Oh, speak no more to me. The voice of man
Grates on my ear, for I would be alone—
Alone, to weep."
Long flow'd that mourner's tears,
But then beside the Bible she knelt down,
And laid her cheek upon its hallow'd page,
And said, "God comfort me."
And as she closed
The fervent prayer, methought a still small voice
Bade the swoln surges of her soul be still,
That He who walk'd upon Tiberias' lake,
Ruling the midnight storm, might thither come,
And save from shipwreck.
Then, with pang subdued,
Her heart went wandering to her loved one's grave,
Marking in every bud that blossom'd there,
In every joyous butterfly that spread
Its radiant wing amid the flowers, a type
Of glorious resurrection. Every drop
Of dew that sparkled on the turf-clad mound
Seem'd holy to her. Even the bitter grief
That made the parting hour so desolate,
Put on the robe of humble faith, and said,
"'Tis well, my Lord, well with the little one
That dwells with thee."
