"Though our tears fell fast and faster,
Yet we would not call her back;
We are glad her feet no longer
Tread life's rough and thorny track.
We are glad our Heavenly Father
Took her while her heart was pure;
We are glad He did not leave her,
All life's troubles to endure.
We are glad--and yet the tear-drop
Falleth, for, alas! we know
That our fireside will be lonely,
We shall miss our darling so!"
HOW beautiful a young child in its shroud! Calm and heavenly looks the white face on which the blighting breath of sin never rested.
The silken curls parted from the marble brow--the once bright eyes closed--once red lips pale--little hands that have ofttimes been clasped as the lips repeated "Our Father," now meekly folded over the throbless heart, tell us that Death, cruel, relentless Death, has been there.
Surely, the _soul_ that once beamed from those closed eyes is happy! Hath not the Saviour said, "Of such is the kingdom of heaven?" Robed like an angel is she now, a lamb in the Saviour's bosom. Could parental love ask more? Surely not. Cleansed from all earthly taint; secure from all trouble, care, or sin, those eyes will no more weep; but the tiny hands will sweep a golden harp, and the childish voice will be heard making music in heaven.
Often, O, how often had our hearts said, "God bless her!" And has not our prayer been answered? The yearnings of love cannot be stifled; for we miss the loving clasp of white arms--the soft pressure of fresh lips--the prattle and smile that were music and light to our world-weary hearts; our hand moves in vain for a resting-place on the golden head; yet we feel, we know that "it is well with the child," for we see how much of woe she has escaped; how much of bliss she has gained; a home with the sinless; the companionship of angels for ETERNITY. Blessed one!
Alone, yet fearlessly, didst thou pass through the "dark valley" and enter into the home prepared for thee. As fearlessly, trustingly may _we_ meet the conqueror, Death, and when the conflict is ended, meet thee in thy new home to dwell for evermore!
[The end]
T. S. Arthur's essay: The Dead Child