My soul goes up with joy
To him who gave my boy,

Then comes the sad thought that

he is not there!

When at the day's calm close,

Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother offering up our prayer,
Whate'er I may be saying,

I am, in spirit, praying

For our boy's spirit, though he is not there!

The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear.

The grave that now doth press
Upon that cast-off dress

Is but his wardrobe locked · - he is not there!

He lives! in all the past

He lives! nor to the last

Of seeing him again will I despair.

In dreams I see him now;

And on his angel brow

I see it written, - Thou shalt see me there!

Yes, we all live to God!

Father, thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,

That in the Spirit land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

'T will be our heaven to find that he is there!

JOY IN SORROW.

HAVE we not knelt beside his bed,

And watched our first-born blossom die? Hoped, till the shade of hope had fled, Then wept till feeling's fount was dry? Was it not sweet, in that dark hour,

To think, 'mid mutual tears and sighs, Our bud had left its earthly bower,

And burst to bloom in Paradise?

What to the thought that soothed that woe
Were life's best joys ten years ago?

RESIGNATION.

THERE is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel for her children crying
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! these severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise;

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps

What seem to us but dim, funereal tapers,
May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no death! what seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life Elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead, –

the child of our affection,

But gone unto that school,

Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion
By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,

She will not be a child;

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,

Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful, with all the soul's expansion,
Shall we behold her face.

And though at times, impetuous with emotion.
And anguish long suppressed,

The swelling heart heaves, moaning like the ocean
That cannot be at rest;

We will be patient! and assuage the feeling

We cannot wholly stay;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing

The grief that must have way.