And once again my Mother comes
From out the grave, to rest
Her limbs within this old arm chair,
And bless as oft she blest!
I feel her gentle hand in love
Laid softly on my head;
Just as 'twas laid when I have knelt-
And here my prayers have said;
I feel her kiss upon my cheek,
Her warm and humid breath-
All seem to come again to life,
From out the realms of death!
And while I gaze upon this chair,
Tears will unbidden start;
All wrung from out the very core
Of my afflicted heart:
While in my soul I bless the dead,
Who were so kind to me;
And in the height of filial love,
I bless, old chair, e'en thee!
Then while I live thou shalt remain
Still standing where thou art;
An uncouth relic of the past,
But dear unto my heart;
And when kind Heaven shall call me hence
And I have ceased to be,
My children shall have charge to take
The utmost care of thee!
To the Memory of Harriet, daughter of the Rev. I. New, minister of the baptist church, Salisbury, who died 9th November, 1844, aged eight years.
The daughter of Dr. Doddridge, when about six years old, was asked why everybody loved her, when she replied, "I don't know, indeed, father, unless it is because I love everybody."
SUCH Harriet was; so good and kind,
That foes in her a friend might find:
Frank, generous, tender, free from guile,
Her features wore a constant smile;
And Jesus had his seal imprest,
Deep and secure within her breast:
Like Him she ever sought to be,
Enrob'd with sweet humility.
Bought with his blood, her youthful days
Were consecrated to his praise;
And oft she ask'd, in simple prayer,
For grace to shun each tempting snare.
None could forbear to love this child,
So patient, meek, in temper mild;
Friends and companions, of her heart
And every treasure had a part.
A selfish will, or envious eyes,
Or hateful pride, or fretful cries,
Were transient guests within her breast,
Like vapoury clouds where sunbeams rest.
She liv'd for others weal alone,
And made their joys and griefs her own.
The Sabbath-school to her was dear,
She learnt with babes God's name to fear;
To lisp the Saviour's worthy praise,
In passing sweet, yet artless lays.
But sickness came while yet in youth,
And then she heard this solemn truth-
From lips that spoke in accents mild-
"You soon will die, my dearest child;
What are your hopes? Your views of heaven?
Oh, know you yet your sins forgiven?
To Jesus do you wish to go,
And be for ever free from woe ?"
"Mother," she said, "must I soon die? Yet shall I live beyond the sky:
Of death I am not now afraid,
Though in the grave I shall be laid;
You know I do the Saviour love,
And he will take my soul above;
And there, upon his tender breast,
With you I shall for ever rest.
I feel it most to say 'farewell',
Yet let me go with him to dwell:
Grieve not, my mother, do not cry,
I am not now afraid to die."
Sweet words,-like balm the mind to cheer, Which fell upon a mother's ear,
While fast as morn succeeds to night,
Her child was struggling into light.
Midst sufferings keen, her youthful heart
Received stern Death's unerring dart;
Yet peace and love there dwelt serene,
Nor clouds of doubt did intervene.
Before the spirit homeward fled,
A glimpse of heaven was o'er her spread;
"Oh, I am happy!" faint she cried,
And then without a struggle died;
The key-note of the angelic song,
Came warbling from her faltering tongue,
Ere yet her soul, attuned with love,
Burst from its bonds and soared above.
Sleep on, dear child, in quiet sleep;
For thee we cease to mourn and weep;
Thou dost, upon earth's pillow, rest
More calm than on thy mother's breast:
Yet shall thy dust immortal wake,
And from its fetters joyful break.
Thou wert a flower of loveliest form,
Pluck'd gently 'midst death's fiercer storm; The first-fruits of a father's care,
An earnest of his answered prayer.
God takes thee hence; He gave thee birth, Nor dare we wish thee back to earth;
Bloom, then, more sweet in Paradise,
Till we shall meet thee in the skies.
Sheffield.
THE beams of April, ere it goes,
A worm, scarce visible, disclose;
All winter long content to dwell
The tenant of his native shell.
The same abundant season gives
The nourishment by which he lives,
The mulberry leaf, a simple store,
That serves him-till he needs no more!
For when his size is once complete,
Thenceforth none ever sees him eat;
Though till his growing time be past
Scarce ever is he seen to fast.
That hour arrived, his work begins
He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins; Till circle upon circle wound,
Careless around him and around,
Conceals him with a veil, though slight,
Yet hiding from the keenest sight.
Thus self-enclosed, as in a cask,
At length he finishes his task;
And though a worm when he was lost,
Or caterpillar at the most,
When next we see him, wings he wears,
And as a butterfly appears;
Whose eggs supply the future flies
Of the ensuing year-then dies!
Well were it for the world, if all
Who creep about this earthly ball,
Though shorter lived than most they be,
Were useful in their kind as he!
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