MY CHILD. I thread the crowded street; A satchelled lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; Follow him with my eye, I know his face is hid Under the coffin lid; Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; O'er it in prayer I knelt; Yet my heart whispers that he is not there! I cannot make him dead! When passing by the bed, So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye Seek him inquiringly, Before the thought comes that he is not there! When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy; Then comes the sad thought that he is not there! When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, MY CHILD Whate'er I may be saying, I am in spirit praying For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there! Not there!-Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear. Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked; he is not there! He lives! In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, In dreams I see him now; And, on his angel brow, I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!" Yes, we all live to God! FATHER, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, Meeting at thy right hand, "Twill be our heaven to find that he is there! JOHN PIERPONT IT NEVER COMES AGAIN. THERE are gains for all our losses, We are stronger, and are better, Something beautiful is vanished, RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin, All your wish is woman to win; Curly gold locks cover foolish brains; THE AGE OF WISDOM. Forty times over let Michaelmas pass; Pledge me round! I bid ye declare, Common grow and wearisome, ere The reddest lips that ever have kissed, Gillian's dead! God rest her bier: Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. |