University of Virginia Library

LIFE IN DEATH.

The child was dead. Upon his little cot,
Serenely beautiful, he lay at rest.
His golden curls in radiant ringlets fell
About his brow, like alabaster, white;
His cheek, in dimpled fulness, mocked
Our weeping words that he was dead,
And his lips half-parted with the smile
With which he met the angels, still remained,
As if in transfer of his joy to us.
His eyes were half-unsealed, and in their deeps
Of hazel-light our hearts could scarcely deem
The soul had fled to leave us sorrowing here.
Oh, depth of woe! Oh, futile word of peace!
Bereaved—bereaved—the human heart is bowed,
And turning to itself, with motherly care,
Nurses the grief that wastes its life away.
Within our night of grief—how dark a night!—
Philosophy is vain, and faith's bright beam,
Alive for others' guide, when we are called
To soothe the stricken, is obscured to us—
A darkened lamp it is, at best, whose ray
Is struggling with the damps of unbelief.
“Help thou our unbelief,” oh God, we prayed,
“Nor let us sink in fathomless despair!”
The prayer was heard.
Another little one,
O'er whom the light of five short years had passed,
Stood gazing on the beauteous face, whose lines
The artist, Death, had fixed, when with a shout
Of joyous note, that made the circling blood
Bound with a quicker impulse to the heart,
She cried aloud, and clapped her tiny hands,
“Brother's awake!”
The open eye to her
Wore the bright beam of life—death's mystery
Had found no room within her little thought.
Oh, blessed word, that came to quicken faith,
And drive the clouds of brooding doubt away!
Awake! awake! and the reviving soul
Saw not the clod of clay save as the shrine
That bore the jewel whose immortal light
Had gone to sparkle in the crown of regal heaven.