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THE PLAYTHINGS.

OA! Mother, here's the very top

That brother used to spin,
The vase with seeds I've seen him drop

To call our robin in,
The line that held his pretty kite,

His bow, his cup and ball, –
The slate on which he learned to write,

His feather, cap and all !

My dear, I'd put the things away,

Just where they were before : Go, Anna, take him out to play ;

And shut the closet door.

Sweet innocent! he little thinks,

The slightest thought expressed,
Of him that's lost, how deep it sinks

Within a mother's breast.

H. F. GOULD.

THE MOTHER'S DREAM

And I will give him the morning star.

REV., II., 28.

METHOUGHT once more to my wishful eye

My beautiful boy had come:
My sorrow was gone; my cheek was dry;

And gladness around my home.

I saw the form of my dear, lost child !

All kindled with life he came;

And spake in his own sweet voice, and smiled,

As soon as I called his name.

The raiment he wore looked heavenly white,

As the feathery snow comes down; And warm, as it glowed in the softened light

That fell from his dazzling crown.

His eye was bright with a joy serene,

His cheek, with a deathless bloom, That only the eye of my soul hath seen

When looking beyond the tomb.

The odors of flowers from that fair land,

Where we deem that our blest ones are,

Seemed borne in his skirts; and his soft right hand

Was holding a radiant star.

His feet, unshod, looked tender and fair

As the lily's opening bell,
Half veiled in a glory-cloud, as there

Around him in folds it fell.

I asked him how he was clothed anew,

Who circled his head with light,
And whence he returned to meet my view,

So calm and heavenly bright.

I asked him where he had been so long

Away from his mother's care, Again to sing me his infant song,

And to kneel by my side in prayer.

He said, “Sweet mother, the song I sing

Is not for an earthly ear :
I touch the harp with a golden string,

For the hosts of Heaven to hear !

“It was but a gently-fleeting breath

That severed thy child from thee! The fearful shadow, in time called Death,

Hath ministered life to me.

“My voice in an angel choir I lift ;

And high are the notes we raise : I hold the sign of a priceless gift,

And the Giver, who hath our praise.

“The bright and the Morning Star' is he,

Who bringeth eternal day!
And, mother, he giveth himself to thee,

To lighten thine earthly way.

“The race is short to a peaceful goal,

And He is never afar,
Who saith of the wise, untiring soul,

I will give him the Morning Star !

“Thy measure of care for me was filled,

And pure to its crystal top;
For Faith, with a steady eye, distilled

And numbered every drop.

“ While thou wast teaching my lips to move,

And my heart to rise, in prayer,
I learned the way to a world above:

The home of thy child is there !

“The secret prayers thou didst make for me,

Which only our God hath known, Have risen like incense fresh and free,

And gathered about His throne.

“My robe was filled with their perfume sweet,

To shed upon this world's air,
As I knelt with joy at my Saviour's feet,

For the glorious crown I wear.

“In that bright, beautiful world of ours

The water of life I drink :

Behold my feet, as they've pressed the flowers

That grow by the fountain's brink !

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