THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF.
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THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF.
She sits beside the cradle, And her tears are streaming fast,For she sees the present only, While she thinks of all the past;—Of the days so full of gladness When her first-horn's answering kissThrilled her soul with such a rapture That it knew no other bliss.O those happy, happy moments! They but deepen her despair,For she bends above the cradle, And her baby is not there!
There are words of comfort spoken, And the leaden clouds of griefWear the smiling bow of promise, And she feels a sad relief;But her wavering thoughts will wander Till they settle on the sceneOf the dark and silent chamber, And of all that might have been;—For a little vacant garment, Or a shining tress of hair,Tells her heart, in tones of anguish, That her baby is not there!
She sits beside the cradle, But her tears no longer flow;For she sees a blessed vision And forgets all earthly woe;Saintly eyes look down upon her, And the Voice that hushed the seaStills her spirit with the whisper— "Suffer them to come to Me."And while her soul is lifted On the soaring wings of prayer,Heaven's crystal gates swing inward, And she sees her baby there!
