THE DYING MOTHER'S PRAYER.
I heard the voice of prayer—a mother's prayer—
A dying mother, for her only son.
Young was his brow, and fair.
Her hand was on his head,
Her words of love were said,
Her work was done.
And there were other voices near her bed—
Sweet, bird-like voices—for their mother dear
Asking, with mournful tear.
Ah, by whose hand shall those sad tears be dried,
When one brief hour is fled,
And her's shall pulseless rest, low with the silent dead.
Yes, there was Death's dark valley drear and cold!
And the hoarse dash of Jordan's swelling wave,
Alone she treads: is there no earthly hold,
No friend—no helper—no strong arm to save?
Down to the fearful grave,
In the firm courage of a faith serene,
Alone she prest—
And as she drew the chord
That bound her to the Lord
More closely round her breast,
The white wing of the waiting angel spread
More palpably, and earth's bright things grew pale.
Even fond affection's wail
Seemed like the far-off sigh of spring's forgotten gale,
And so the mother's prayer,
So often breathed above,
In agonizing love,
Rose high in praise of God's protecting care.
Meek on his arm her infant charge she laid,
And, with a trusting eye,
Of christian constancy,
Confiding in her blest Redeemer's aid,
She taught the weeping band
Who round her couch of pain did stand,
How a weak woman's hand,
Fettered with sorrow and with sin,
Might from the King of Terror's win
The victory.