One mother weepeth over birth,

Another weepeth over death;

In vain all Heaven answereth.

Laughs from the little ones may reach
Their ears, and teach

Them what, so blind with tears, they never saw,—
That of all life, all death, God's love is law."

HELEN HUNT JACKSON (H. H.).

THE FLOWN SOUL.

(FRANCIS HAWTHORNE LATHROP.)

February 6, 1881.

COME not again! I dwell with you
Above the realm of frost and dew,
Of pain and fire, and growth to death.
I dwell with you where never breath
Is drawn, but fragrance vital flows
From life to life, even as a rose
Unseen pours sweetness through each vein
And from the air distills again.

You are my rose unseen: we live
Where each to other joy may give
In ways untold, by means unknown
And secret as the magnet-stone.

For which of us, indeed, is dead?
No more I lean to kiss your head-

The golden-red hair so thick upon it;
Joy feels no more the touch that won it
When o'er my brow your pearl-cool palm
In tenderness so childish, calm,

Crept softly, once. Yet, see, my arm

Is strong, and still my blood runs warm :
I still can work, and think, and weep.
But all this show of life I keep

Is but the shadow of your shine,
Flickers of your fire, husk of your vine;
Therefore, you are not dead, nor I
Who hear your laughter's minstrelsy.
Among the stars your feet are set :
Your little feet are dancing yet
Their rhythmic beat, as when on earth.
So swift, so slight are death and birth!

Come not again, dear child. If thou
By any chance couldst break that vow
Of silence at thy last hour made;

If to this grim life unafraid

Thou couldst return, and melt the frost
Wherein thy bright limb's power was lost;
Still would I whisper-since so fair
This silent comradeship we share—
Yes, whisper 'mid the unbidden rain
Of tears: 66

Come not, come not again!"

GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.

THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE.

Is it so far from thee

Thou canst no longer see,

In the Chamber over the Gate,

That old man desolate,

Weeping and wailing sore

For his son, who is no more?
O Absalom, my son!

Is it so long ago

That cry of human woe
From the walled city came,
Calling on his dear name,
That it has died away
In the distance of to-day?
O Absalom, my son !

There is no far nor near,

There is neither there nor here,

There is neither soon nor late,

In that Chamber over the Gate,
Nor any long ago

To that cry of human woe,

O Absalom,

my son !

From the ages that are past

The voice sounds like a blast,

Over seas that wreck and drown,
Over tumult of traffic and town;

And from ages yet to be
Come the echoes back to me

O Absalom, my son !

Somewhere at every hour
The watchman on the tower
Looks forth, and sees the fleet
Approach of the hurrying feet
Of messengers, that bear
The tidings of despair.

O Absalom, my son !

He goes forth from the door,
Who shall return no more.
With him our joy departs;
The light goes out in our hearts;
In the Chamber over the Gate
We sit disconsolate.

O Absalom, my son!

That 'tis a common grief
Bringeth but slight relief;
Ours is the bitterest loss,
Ours is the heaviest cross;
And forever the cry will be

"Would God I had died for thee,

O Absalom, my son!"

HENRY W. Longfellow.

MY CHILD.

I CANNOT make him dead:
His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study-chair:

Yet, when my eyes, now dim
With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes-he is not there!

I walk my parlor floor,

And through the open door

I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
I'm stepping toward the hall

To give the boy a call;

And then bethink me that-he is not there!

I thread the crowded street;

A satchell'd lad I meet,

With the same beaming eyes and color'd hair: And, as he's running by,

Follow him with my eye,

Scarcely believing that he is not there!

I know his face is hid

Under the coffin-lid;

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; My hand that marble felt;

O'er it in prayer I knelt ;

Yet my heart whispers that he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!
When passing by the bed,

So long watched over with parental care,