146. A Child's Death

Thou tonchest iis lightly, O God! in our grief;
But how rough is Thy touch in our prosperous
hours!
All was bright, but Thou earnest, so dreadful and
brief,
Like a thunderbolt falling in gardens of flowers.

My children! My children! they clustered all round
me.
Like a rampart which sorrow could never break
through;
Each change in their beautiful lives only bound me
In a spell of delight which no care could undo.

But the eldest! O Father! how glorious he was,
With the soul looking out through his fountain-
like eyes:
Thou lovest Thy Sole-born! And had I not cause
I'lie treasure Thou gavest me, Father! to prize?

But the lily-bed lies beaten down by the rain,
And the tallest is gone from the place where he
grew;
My tallest! my fairest! Oh let me complain;
For all life is unroofed, and the tempests beat
through.

I murmur not, Father! My will is with Thee;
I knew at the first that my darling was Thine:
Hadst Thou taken him earlier, O Father! — but
see!
Thou hadst left him so long that I dreamed he
was mine.

Thou hast taken the fairest: he the fairest to me:
Thou hast taken the fairest: 'tis always Thy way;
Thou hast taken the dearest: was he dearest to
Thee?
Thou art welcome, thrice welcome: — yet woe is
the day!

Thou hast honored my child by the speed of Thy
choice.
Thou hast crowned him with glory, overwhelmed
him with mirth:
He sings up in heaven with his sweet-sounding
voice,
While I, a saint's mother, am weeping on earth.

Yet oh for that voice, which is thrilling through
heaven,
One moment my ears with its music to slake!
Oh no! not for worlds would I have him re-given,
Yet I long to have back what I would not re-take.

I grudge him, and grudge him not! Father! Thou
knowest
The foolish confusions of innocent sorrow;
It is thus in Thy husbandry, Saviour! Thou so west
The grief of to-day for the grace of to-morrow.

Thou art blooming in heaven, my Blossom, my
Pride!
And thy beauty makes Jesus and Mary more
glad:
Saints' mothers have sung when their eldest-born
died,
Oh why, my own saint! is thy mother so sad?

Go, go with thy God, with thy Saviour, my child!
Thou art His; I am His; and thy sisters are
His:
But to-day thy fond mother with sorrow is wild, —
To think that her son is an angel in bliss!

Oh forgive me, dear Saviour! on heaven's bright
shore
Should I still in my child find a separate joy:
While I lie in the light of Thy. Face evermore,
May I think heaven brighter because of my boy?