Page:Poems Eaton.djvu/51

Is it well with the child, when beneath the fond gaze
 Of the friends whose affection no language can tell,
He unfolds like a flower, 'neath the sun's warming rays,
 Into goodness and gentleness? Sure, it is well.

Is it well with the child, when with sickness oppress'd,
 Whose dreaded approaches no art can repel?
He murmurs and groans in his troubled unrest,
 And with soul-piercing cries, begs for aid—is it well?

Is it well with the child, when his quivering form
 Is thrilled with an anguish, how deep, none can tell—
When curdles the blood, which of late flowed so warm,
 And the death-pang comes o'er him? Oh say, is it well?

Is it well with the child, when slow to the grave
 He is borne at the sound of the deep-tolling bell?
When his spirit returns to the Father who gave,
 And our home is left desolate? Oh, is it well?

Is it well with the child, when he soars to the light,
 Which no cloud can o'ershadow, nor darkness dispel?
Ad is clothed in a garment of holiness bright,
 And on Jesus' own bosom finds rest—it is well.

Is it well with the child, when amid the bright throng
 He joins the full chorus which seraphim swell,
And in heaven-taught language re-echoes the song?
 Is it well with the child? It is well—it is well.