The Mourner Comforted

"My boy was beautiful, and he is dead!Oh, speak no more to me. The voice of manGrates on my ear, for I would be alone—Alone, to weep."Long flow'd that mourner's tears,But then beside the Bible she knelt down,And laid her cheek upon its hallow'd page,And said, "God comfort me."And as she closedThe fervent prayer, methought a still small voiceBade the swoln surges of her soul be still,That He who walk'd upon Tiberias' lake,Ruling the midnight storm, might thither come,And save from shipwreck.Then, with pang subdued,Her heart went wandering to her loved one's grave,Marking in every bud that blossom'd there,In every joyous butterfly that spreadIts radiant wing amid the flowers, a typeOf glorious resurrection. Every dropOf dew that sparkled on the turf-clad moundSeem'd holy to her. Even the bitter griefThat made the parting hour so desolate,Put on the robe of humble faith, and said,"'Tis well, my Lord, well with the little oneThat dwells with thee."

And then methought she heardA sound of heavenly harpings, and beheldCelestial gleamings of cherubic wings,And mid the song of ransom'd infancyUnto its Saviour, caught the tuneful voiceOf her own cherish'd nursling.So her lipJoin'd in deep praise. For how could she forbearTo thank her God for him who ne'er should tasteOf trouble more?Was it his tender toneThat whisper'd, as she lay that night in dreams,"Oh, mother, weep no more; but with a heartOf holy love, hold on thy Christian path,And come to me. For He who took on earthYoung children to his arms, will bid in heavenThe mother find her babe. So keep thine eyeClear from the grief-cloud, for the time is short,The way is plain: dear mother, come to me."