After our child's untroubled breath
Up to the Father took its way,
And on our home the shade of death
Like a long twilight haunting lay,
And friends came round with us to weep
The little spirit's swift remove—
This story of the Alpine sheep
Was told to us by one we love.
They, in the valley's sheltering care,
Soon crop the meadow's tender prime,
And when the sod grows brown and bare,
The shepherd strives to make them climb
To any shelves of pasture green
That hang along the mountain side, Where grass and flowers together lean,
And down through mists the sunbeams glide.
But naught can lure the timid things,
The steep and rugged path to try,
Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings,
And seared below the pastures lie,
Till in his arms their lambs he takes,
Along the dizzy verge to go,
When, heedless of the rifts and breaks,
They follow on o'er rock and snow.
And in those pastures lifted fair,
More dewy soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed.
This parable, by natnre breathed,
Blew on me as the south wind free,
O'er frozen brooks that flow, unsheathed
From icy thraldom, to the sea.
A blissful vision through the night
Would all my happy senses sway,
Of the Good Shepherd on the height,
Or climbing up the starry way,
Holding our little lambs asleep—
And like the murmur of the sea
Sounded that voice along the deep,
Saying, "Arise, and follow me!"
FRIENDS of faces unknown, and a land
Unvisited over the sea,
Who tell me how lonely you stand
With a single gold curl in the hand,
Held up to be looked at by me,—
While you ask me to ponder, and say
What a father and mother can do
With the bright fellow-locks put away,
Out of reach, beyond kiss, in the clay,
Where the violets press nearer than you,—
Shall I speak like a poet, or run
Into weak woman's tears for relief?
Oh, children-I never lost one;
Yet my arm's round my own little son,
And Love knows the secret of grief.
And I feel what it must be and is,
When God draws a new angel so,
Through the house of a man up to His,
With a murmur of music you miss,
And a rapture of light you forego:
How you think, staring on at the door
Where the face of your angel flashed in,
That its brightness, familiar before,
Burns off from you ever the more
For the dark of your sorrow and sin.
"God lent him and takes him," you sigh.
Nay, there let me break with your pain:
God's generous in giving, say I,
And the thing which he gives, I deny
That he ever can take back again.
He gives what he gives: I appeal
To all who bear babes; in the hour
When the veil of the body we feel
Rent around us-while torments reveal
The motherhood's advent in power,
And the babe cries-has each of us known
By apocalypse-God being there
Full in nature-the child is our own,
Life of life, love of love, moan of moan,
Through all changes, all times, everywhere,
He's ours, and forever. Believe,
O father!-O mother, look back
To the first love's assurance. To give
Means, with God, not to tempt or deceive,
With a cup thrust in Benjamin's sack.
He gives what he gives. Be content!
He resumes nothing given-be sure!
Where the usurers lent
In his temple, indignant he went,
And scourged away all those impure.
He lends not, but gives to the end,
As he loves to the end. If it seem
That he draws back a gift, comprehend
'Tis to add to it, rather, amend,
And finish it up to your dream,—
Or keep, as a mother may, toys
Too costly, though given by herself, Till the room shall be stiller from noise, And the children more fit for such joys,
Kept over their heads on the shelf.
So look up, friends! you who indeed
Have possessed in your house a sweet piece Of the heaven which men strive for, must need Be more earnest than others are-speed
Where they loiter, persist where they cease.
You know how one angel smiles there,—
Then, courage. 'Tis easy for you
To be drawn by a single gold hair
Of that curl, from earth's storm and despair
To the safe place above us. Adieu.
ELIZABETH B. BROWNING.
Spinning of the Shroud.
LOWLY ravel, threads of doom;
Slowly lengthen, fatal yarn;
Death's inexorable gloom
Stretches like the frozen tarn
Never thawed by sunbeams kind,
Ruffled ne'er by wave or wind;
Man beholds it and is still,
Daunted by its mortal chill;
Thither haste my helpless feet,
While I spin my winding-sheet!
Summer's breath, divinely warm,
Kindles every pulse to glee:
Fled are traces of the storm,
Wintry frost and leafless tree;
Shakes the birch its foliage light,
In the sun the mists are bright;
Heaven and earth their hues confound,
Scattering rainbows on the ground;
Life with rapture is replete,
While I spin my winding-sheet!
Summer's voice is loud and clear,
Lowing kine and rippling swell;
Yet beneath it all I hear
Something of a funeral knell.
Sings the linnet on the bough,
Sings my bridegroom at the plow;
Whirrs the grouse along the brake,
Plash the trout within the lake;
Soft the merry lambkins bleat,—
While I spin my winding-sheet!
Thatched with mosses green and red,
Blooming as a fairy hill,
Lifts my home its cheerful head
By the ever-leaping rill.
Lo! its future inmates rise,
Gathering round with loving eyes;
Some my Dugald's features wear,
Some have mine, but far more fair;
Prattling lips my name repeat,—
While I spin my winding-sheet!
Youth is bright above my track,
Health is strong within my breast;
Wherefore must this shadow black
On my bridal gladness rest?
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