From Ailenroc’s Book, by Cornelia Alexander
Mother, art grieving for the little form
Stern death has snatched from thine embrace away,
Which thou with sorrow-stricken heart hath laid
In dreamless sleep beneath the churchyard clay?
Grieve not, fond mother, for that tiny bark
Shall ne’er by stormy winds on seas be driven,
Life’s storms are not to weather; but, the ocean crossed,
’Tis safely anchored in the port of heaven.
Mother, art listening for the prattling tongue,
Whose music charmed thee all the day long,
Till, hushed in slumbers of the night, she smiled
As though she hearkened to an angel’s song?
By faith look upward; thou canst almost hear,
Floating through pearly gates, that silvery voice
Joined with bright angels in a song of praise;
Then weep no longer, mother, but rejoice.
Mother, art sighing for the little feet
Whose pattering followed thee from morn till night?
How oft thy heart has trembled, lest thou should
Not guide them in the paths of peace aright!
Then sigh no longer, for those little feet
Shall never walk in sin or wickedness;
But, saved forever, they are sporting now
On the green fields of everlasting peace.
Ah, what is life? ’Tis a struggle, toil, and strife;
Blissful the peace of heaven when all is past.
In joy and love and thankfulness the soul
Finds rest and its lost treasures there at last.
Then grieve not, for thy babe has gone before,
Saved from all sorrow, sin, and earthly pain.
Rejoice that on that bright and shining shore
You there may clasp her to your heart again.