The Cheerful Giver

"WHAT shall I render Thee! Father Supreme,For thy rich gifts, and this the best of all?"Said a young mother, as she fondly watchedHer sleeping babe.There was an answering voiceThat night in dreams."Thou hast a little budWrapt in thy breast, and fed with dewsOf love; give me that bud,'twill beA flower in heaven."But there was silence, yea, a hush so deep,Breathless and terror-stricken,That the lipBlanched in its trance-"Thou hast a little harpHow sweetly would it swell theAngels' songs! Give me that harp."There burst a shuddering sobAs if the bosom, by some hidden sword,Was cleft in twain.

Morn came, a blight had foundThe crimson velvet of the unfolding bud;The harp-string rang a thrilling strain,And broke,And that young mother lay uponThe earth in childless agony.Again the voice-That stirred her vision"He who asked of theeLoveth a cheerful giver."So she raisedHer gushing eye, and ere the tear-dropDried upon its fringes, smiled-Doubt not that smile,Like Abraham's faith,"Was counted righteousness."