TO A MOTHER WITH A DYING CHILD.

Loosen thine arms, fond mother, And let thy darling go! Thou wouldst not hold him down to earth, Amid these floods of woe. O, clasp him not so fondly Close to thy trembling breast; It is a spot he loves—and yet ’Tis not a place of rest. There is no love nor beauty Can charm disease away; The spoiler comes, and rude his touch, Be long or short his stay. Soft is thy baby’s pillow Upon thy tender breast; Oft have its gentle heavings lull’d Thy weary boy to rest. But now in mortal anguish, What spot can ease his pain? No more he’ll nestle in thine arms, Or smile on thee again! To watch his painful breathings, To hear his parting sigh, To see him chill and motionless, All glazed his beauteous eye, ’Twill tear thy twining heartstrings, ’Twill melt thy soul with woe; But he in Heaven will drink of joy He tasted not below. Look forward, weeping mother, And place thy darling there; Eased in a moment all his pain— His struggles—and his fear! O, see thy lovely cherub, Enraptured with surprise! All new to him the glorious things Which charm his wond’ring eyes! He wears a robe of beauty, The Savior has put on; Tinged like the gorgeous clouds that lie Around the setting sun! He makes harmonious music, He tunes his golden lyre, And in his own loud welcome, joins The bright celestial choir! He thinks of thee, fond mother! But not with sorrow there; He watches for thy spirit-form Beside those portals fair. Now—look again in pity Upon thy suff’ring boy, And choose his home in that bright world Of pure immortal joy. Loosen thine arms, fond mother, And let thy darling go; Yes! bid him stretch his angel wings, And fly from pain and woe!