a sketch.
167
The hopes of many a glad and gushing heart
Were garnered in her. That pale mother's eye,
Dimmed by its midnight vigil at her couch,
Shed o'er her rest the silent, secret tear.
Oft to the throne of God her prayer arose,
That He would spare that treasure of her heart.
She was a Christian mother; and the prayer,
"Thy will be done," though choked by many a sigh,
And scarce articulate from excess of grief,
Was yet the whisper of her bursting heart.
Were garnered in her. That pale mother's eye,
Dimmed by its midnight vigil at her couch,
Shed o'er her rest the silent, secret tear.
Oft to the throne of God her prayer arose,
That He would spare that treasure of her heart.
She was a Christian mother; and the prayer,
"Thy will be done," though choked by many a sigh,
And scarce articulate from excess of grief,
Was yet the whisper of her bursting heart.
Life was extinct; not less in that young heart,
The last sole relic of a mother's gems,
Than in her earthly hopes, that suffering one.
Widowed and childless in her misery,
Where could that mother turn her asking eye
Better than to His throne, whose grace is near
The Christian mourner in his agony?
He saw her anguish, heard the prayer of faith,
And gently led her to her heavenly home,
Where each bright jewel, lent her upon earth,
Shines, fair and fadeless, in the courts of heaven.
The last sole relic of a mother's gems,
Than in her earthly hopes, that suffering one.
Widowed and childless in her misery,
Where could that mother turn her asking eye
Better than to His throne, whose grace is near
The Christian mourner in his agony?
He saw her anguish, heard the prayer of faith,
And gently led her to her heavenly home,
Where each bright jewel, lent her upon earth,
Shines, fair and fadeless, in the courts of heaven.
