The parting struggle all was mine,
""Tis the survivor dies:"
For she was freed, and gone to join
The triumph of the skies.
'ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT DAUGHTER.
SWEET babe, she glanc'd into our world to see
A sample of our misery,
Then turned away her languid eye
To drop a tear or two, and die.
Sweet babe, she tasted of life's bitter cup,
Refused to drink the potion up!
But turn'd her little head aside,
Disgusted with the taste, and died.
Sweet babe, she listen'd for a while to hear
Our mortal griefs, then turn'd her ear
To angels' harps and songs, and cried,
To join their notes celestial, sighed, and died.
Sweet babe no more, but seraph now,
Before the throne behold her bow;
To heavenly joys her spirit flies,
Blest in the triumph of the skies;
Adores the grace that brought her there
Without a wish-without a care,
That wash'd her soul in Calv'ry's stream,
That shorten'd life's distressing dream.
Short pain-short grief-dear babe, was thine,
Now joys eternal and divine.
Yes, thou art fled, and saints a welcome sing,
Thine infant spirit soars on angel's wing.
Our dark affection might have hoped thy stay;
The voice of God has called his child away,
Like Samuel, early in the temple found,
Sweet Rose of Sharon, plant of holy ground;
Oh! more than Samuel blest, to thee 'tis given,
The God he serv'd on earth, to serve in heaven.
CUNNINGHAM.
ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD AT DAYBREAK.
BY THE LATE REV. R. CECIL
"Let me go, for the day breaketh."
CEASE here longer to detain me,
Fondest mother! drowned in wo;
Now thy kind caresses pain me;
Morn advances-let me go.
See yon orient streak appearing,
Harbinger of endless day;
Hark! a voice the darkness cheering,
Calls my new-born soul away.
Lately launched, a trembling stranger,
On this world's wild boisterous flood;
Pierced with sorrows, tossed with danger,
Gladly I return to God!
Now my cries shall cease to grieve thee,
Now my trembling heart find rest;
Kinder arms than thine receive me,
Softer pillow than thy breast.
Weep not o'er these eyes that languish,
Upward turn'd towards their home;
Raptur'd, they'll forget all anguish,
While they wait to see thee come,
There, my mother! pleasures centre-
Weeping, parting, care, or wo,
Ne'er our Father's house shall enter-
Morn advances-let me go.
As through this calm, this holy dawning
Silent glides my parting breath,
To an everlasting morning-
Gently close my eyes in death.
Blessings endless, richest blessings,
Pour their streams upon thy heart!
(Though no language yet possessing,)
Breathes my spirit ere we part.
Yet to leave thee sorrowing rends me,
Though again his voice I hear;
May every grace attend thee,
Rise! and seek to meet me there!
To mark the sufferings of the babe,
That cannot speak its wo;
To see the infant's tears gush forth,
Yet know not why they flow;
To meet the meek uplifted eye,
That fain would ask relief,
Yet can but tell of agony,-
This is a mother's grief.
Through dreary days and darker nights
To trace the march of death
To hear the faint and frequent sigh,
The quick and shortened breath;
To watch the dread last strife draw near,
And pray that struggle brief,
Though all is ended with its close,-
This is a mother's grief.
To see in one short hour decayed
The hope of future years;
To feel how vain a father's prayers,
How vain a mother's tears;
To think the cold grave now must close
O'er what was once the chief
Of all the treasured joys of earth,—
This is a mother's grief.
Yet when the first wild throb is past
Of anguish and despair,
To lift the eye of faith to heaven,
And think my child is there,—
This best can dry the gushing tear,
This yields the heart relief,
Until the Christian's pious hope
O'ercomes a mother's grief.
UPON my father's new-clos'd grave
Deep lay the winter's snow;
Green, now, the grass waves o'er his head,
And tall the tomb-weeds grow.
Along life's road no parent's hand
My homeless footsteps led;
No mother's arm in sickness sooth'd
And rais'd my throbbing head.
But other hearts, Lord, thou hast warm'd
With tenderness benign;
And in the stranger's eye I mark
The tear of pity shine.
The stranger's hand by thee is mov'd
To be the orphan's stay;
And, better far, the stranger's voice
Hath taught us how to pray.
Thou putt'st a new song in our mouth,
A song of praise and joy :
O may we not our lips alone,
But hearts, in praise employ !
To Him who little children took,
And in his bosom held,
And, blessing them with looks of love
Their rising fears dispell'd;
To him, while flow'rs bloom on the bank
Or lambs sport on the lea;
While larks with morning hymns ascend
Or birds chant on the tree;
To him let ev'ry creature join
In prayer, and thanks, and praise:
Infants their little anthems lisp,
Age, hallelujahs raise!
WHEN musing sorrow weeps the past,
And mourns the present pain;
How sweet to think of peace at last,
And feel that death is gain!
"Tis not that murm'ring thoughts arise, And dread a Father's will; Tis not that meek submission flies,
And would not suffer still,
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