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113
JAMIE IN HEAVEN, OR A PARENT'S VOICE.
Six summers, dear Jamie, had spread their bright flowers,
With joy for thine eye, as thyself was to ours;—
The song of the bird to thy glad infant ear
Was sweet, as to ours thy loved accents to hear.
But ah! when the seventh spring-budding came round,
Alone in our hearts could our darling be found!
The birds flitted through the green branches, and gave
Their sweet morning hymns round our little one's grave.
With joy for thine eye, as thyself was to ours;—
The song of the bird to thy glad infant ear
Was sweet, as to ours thy loved accents to hear.
But ah! when the seventh spring-budding came round,
Alone in our hearts could our darling be found!
The birds flitted through the green branches, and gave
Their sweet morning hymns round our little one's grave.
We go to thy pillow, but find it unpressed;
Thy fair, open brow has forsaken that rest;—
We hear not thy lisping the soft-murmured prayer
To God, for his angel to watch o'er thee there:
Thy dark, loving eye, with its light, which the lid
There veiled for the night-hours, for ever is hid!
Thy bright, cherub lips have been robbed of their breath
And changed in their hue, by the chill touch of death.
Thy fair, open brow has forsaken that rest;—
We hear not thy lisping the soft-murmured prayer
To God, for his angel to watch o'er thee there:
Thy dark, loving eye, with its light, which the lid
There veiled for the night-hours, for ever is hid!
Thy bright, cherub lips have been robbed of their breath
And changed in their hue, by the chill touch of death.
We wait, and we list; but we hear thee no more,
With light, bounding foot, on the step of the door;
Thy place at the table—the ground of thy play,
Doth sorrow's drear shade overhang, day by day:
A void hast thou left, earth and time ne'er can fill;
And yet ever-present, sweet child, art thou still.
Our spirits their darling so view and infold,
That death cannot hide thee, nor loosen our hold!
With light, bounding foot, on the step of the door;
Thy place at the table—the ground of thy play,
Doth sorrow's drear shade overhang, day by day:
A void hast thou left, earth and time ne'er can fill;
And yet ever-present, sweet child, art thou still.
Our spirits their darling so view and infold,
That death cannot hide thee, nor loosen our hold!
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Thy raiment,—thy playthings,—now sacredly dear,
When viewed, strike the heart like an arrow or spear!
Thy small, precious book, oft so fondly perused,
Intent on the tale, while thy young fancy mused,
No more by thy warm, tender fingers impressed,
Seems now, like thyself, laid for ever at rest:
The story's blest sequel to thee has been given,—
“The Good Little Boy” is gone home into Heaven!
When viewed, strike the heart like an arrow or spear!
Thy small, precious book, oft so fondly perused,
Intent on the tale, while thy young fancy mused,
No more by thy warm, tender fingers impressed,
Seems now, like thyself, laid for ever at rest:
The story's blest sequel to thee has been given,—
“The Good Little Boy” is gone home into Heaven!
But He who has called thee thus early to him,
Before thy bright soul in earth's ways had grown dim,—
Ere yet thy free heart had been caught in their snares,
Oppressed by life's burdens, or torn by its cares,—
That Saviour once wept with the mourner below:
He numbers our tear-drops,—he pities our woe!
And, O, may he teach us the wisdom and trust
To meet thee, with him, above sorrow and dust!
Before thy bright soul in earth's ways had grown dim,—
Ere yet thy free heart had been caught in their snares,
Oppressed by life's burdens, or torn by its cares,—
That Saviour once wept with the mourner below:
He numbers our tear-drops,—he pities our woe!
And, O, may he teach us the wisdom and trust
To meet thee, with him, above sorrow and dust!
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