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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 may not whoily stay;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.

H. W. Longfellow.

O Christ of God! whose life and death

Our own have reconciled,
Most quietly, most tenderly,

Take home this little child !

Thy grace is in her patient eyes,

Thy words are on her tongue;
The very silence round her seems

As if the angels sung.

Her smile is as a listening child's

Who hears its mother call ;
The lilies of thy perfect peace

About her pillow fall.

She leans from out our clinging arms

To rest herself in thine;
Alone to thee, dear Lord, can we

Our well-beloved resign!

Oh, less for her than for ourselves

We bow our heads and pray;
Her setting star, like Bethlehem's

To thee shall point the way.

J. G. Whittier.

Lifted Over.

As tender mothers guiding baby steps,
Where places come at which the tiny feet
Would trip, lift up the little ones in arms
Of love, and set them down beyond the harm,
So did our Father watch the precious boy,
Led o'er the stones by me, who stumbled oft
Myself, but strove to help my darling on:
He saw the sweet limbs faltering, and saw
Rough ways before us, where my arms would fail ;
So reached from heaven, and lifting the dear child,
Who smiled in leaving me, he put him down,
Beyond all hurt, beyond my sight, and bade
Him wait for me! Shall I not then be glad,
And, thanking God, press on to overtake ?

H. H.



The Good Grandmother.

Fold reverently the weary hands

That toiled so long and well ; And while your tears of sorrow fall

Let sweet thanksgivings swell.

That life-work stretching o'er long years

A varied web has been ;
With silver strands by sorrow wrought,

And sunny gleams between.

How bright she always made the home!

It seemed as if the floor
Was always flecked with spots of sun,

And barred with brightness o'er.

The very falling of her step

Made music as she went;
A loving song was on her lip,

The song of full content.

O gently fold the weary hands

That toiled so long and well! The spirit rose to angel bands,

When off earth's mantle fell.

She's safe within her Father's house

Where many mansions be ;
O pray that thus such rest may come
Dear hearts, to thee and me !

Anonymous. Beautiful Wands.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands !

They're neither white nor small,
And you, I know, would scarcely think

That they were fair at all.
I've looked on hands whose form and hue

A sculptor's dream might be,
Yet are those aged wrinkled hands
Most beautiful to me.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!

Though the heart was weary and sad, These patient hands kept toiling on,

That the children might be glad.
I almost weep, as looking back

To childhood's distant day,
I think how these hands rested not

When mine were at their play.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!

They're growing feeble now;
For time and pain have left their mark

On hand and heart and brow.
Alas! Alas! the nearing time,

And the sad, sad day to me,
When 'neath the daisies, vut of sight,

These hands will folded be.

But oh, beyond this shadow-lamp,

Where all is bright and fair,
I know full well these dear old hands

Will palms of victory bear.
Where crystal streams, through endless years,

Flow over golden sands,
And where the old grow young again,
I'll clasp my mother's hands.

Ellen H. M. Gates. Homeward.

They sat in peace in the sunshine,

Till the day was almost done, And then, at its close, an angel

Stole over the threshold-stone.

He folded their hands together;

He touched their eyelids with balm, And their last breath floated outward,

Like the close of a solemn psalm.

Perhaps in that miracle-country

They will give her lost youth back,
And the flowers of the vanished springtime

Will bloom in the spirit's track.

One draught from the living waters

Shall call back his manhood's prime, And eternal years shall measure

The love that outlasted time.

But the shapes that they left behind them

The wrinkles and silver hair — Made holy to us by the kisses

The angels hold printed there —

We will hide away 'neath the willows,

When the day is low in the West, Where the sunbeams cannot find them,

Nor the winds disturb their rest.

And we'll suffer no telltale tombstone,

With its age and date, to rise
O'er the two who are old no longer,
In the Father's house in the skies.

Louise Chandler Moulton.

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