The Cheerful Giver

by Lydia Sigourney

"WHAT shall I render Thee! Father Supreme,
For thy rich gifts, and this the best of all?"
Said a young mother, as she fondly watched
     Her sleeping babe.
                There was an answering voice
     That night in dreams.
                "Thou hast a little bud
Wrapt in thy breast, and fed with dews
Of love; give me that bud,'twill be
A flower in heaven."
But there was silence, yea, a hush so deep,
Breathless and terror-stricken,
                                   That the lip
Blanched in its trance-
                                   "Thou hast a little harp
     How sweetly would it swell the
     Angels' songs! Give me that harp."
There burst a shuddering sob
As if the bosom, by some hidden sword,
Was cleft in twain.

Morn came, a blight had found
The crimson velvet of the unfolding bud;
The harp-string rang a thrilling strain,
And broke,
     And that young mother lay upon
The earth in childless agony.
                Again the voice-
     That stirred her vision
                "He who asked of thee
Loveth a cheerful giver."
                So she raised
Her gushing eye, and ere the tear-drop
Dried upon its fringes, smiled-
                Doubt not that smile,
Like Abraham's faith,
                "Was counted righteousness."