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"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?”
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!"

'Twas throwing words away; for still

The little Maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

MY CHILD

I CANNOT make him dead!
His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study chair;
Yet when my eyes, now dim

With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes, he is not there!

I walk my parlor floor,
And, through the open door,
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
I'm stepping toward the hall

To give my boy a call;

And then bethink me that he is not there!

I thread the crowded street;

A satchelled lad I meet,

My Child

With the same beaming eyes and colored hair;

And, as he's running by,

Follow him with my eye,
Scarcely believing that he is not there!

I know his face is hid

Under the coffin-lid;

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt;

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;
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.
The grave, that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe locked; he is not there!

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He lives! In all the past

He lives; nor, to the last,

Of seeing him again will I despair;
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,

That, in the spirit-land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

"Twill be our heaven to find that he is there!

John Pierpont [1785-1866]

THE CHILD'S WISH GRANTED

Do you remember, my sweet, absent son,

How in the soft June days forever done

You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high; And when I lifted you, soft came your cry,— "Put me 'way up-'way, 'way up in blue sky"?

I laughed and said I could not;-set you down,
Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath that crown
Of bright hair gladdening me as you raced by.
Another Father now, more strong than I,
Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky.
George Parsons Lathrop [1851-1898]

CHALLENGE

THIS little child, so white, so calm,

Decked for her grave,

Encountered death without a qualm.

Are you as brave?

So small, and armed with naught beside

Her mother's kiss,

Alone she stepped, unterrified,

Into the abyss.

Tired Mothers

"Ah," you explain, "she did not know

This babe of four

Just what it signifies to go."

Do you know more?

Kenton Foster Murray [18

TIRED MOTHERS

A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee,
Your tired knee that has so much to bear;
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly
From underneath a thatch of tangled hair.
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch
Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight;
You do not prize this blessing overmuch,—
You almost are too tired to pray to-night.

But it is blessedness! A year ago

I did not see it as I do to-day,-
We are so dull and thankless; and too slow
To catch the sunshine till it slips away.
And now it seems surpassing strange to me
That, while I wore the badge of motherhood,
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly

The little child that brought me only good.

And if some night when you sit down to rest,
You miss this elbow from your tired knee,—
This restless, curling head from off your breast,—
This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped,
And ne'er would nestle in your palm again;
If the white feet into their grave had tripped,
I could not blame you for your heartache then!

I wonder so that mothers ever fret

At little children clinging to their gown;
Or that the footprints, when the days are wet,
Are ever black enough to make them frown.

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If I could find a little muddy boot,

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor,— If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,

And hear its patter in my house once more,—

If I could mend a broken cart to-day,

To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, There is no woman in God's world could say She was more blissfully content than I. But ah! the dainty pillow next my own

Is never rumpled by a shining head;

My singing birdling from its nest has flown,
The little boy I used to kiss is dead.

May Riley Smith [1842–

MY DAUGHTER LOUISE

IN the light of the moon, by the side of the water, My seat on the sand and her seat on my knees, We watch the bright billows, do I and my daughter, My sweet little daughter Louise.

We wonder what city the pathway of glory,

That broadens away to the limitless west,

Leads up to she minds her of some pretty story And says: "To the city that mortals love best." Then I say: "It must lead to the far away city, The beautiful City of Rest."

In the light of the moon, by the side of the water,
Stand two in the shadow of whispering trees,
And one loves my daughter, my beautiful daughter,
My womanly daughter Louise.

She steps to the boat with a touch of his fingers,
And out on the diamonded pathway they move;
The shallop is lost in the distance, it lingers,

It waits, but I know that its coming will prove That it went to the walls of the wonderful city, The magical City of Love.

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