Where little pattering feet
Made music for me, and I saw bright faces
Dimple with laughter sweet

My arms are empty that woold fain be folding
My lost ones to my breast,
But well I know, the Father's face beholding,
They are forever blest.

From Christ's dear words my bleeding heart would gather
At length submissive grace,--
He says that in the kingdom of His Father,
They still behold His face.

In the bright garden of the Lord they're staying,
Amid the angels fair;
And heavenly whispers to my heart are saying--
Look up, your treasure's there.




THE SONG OF THE BEREAVED.

(I have borrowed thy pattern, dear Hood, to cut out our mourning
garments.)


With garments for sorrow torn,
With eyelids heavy and red,