  Far in the land of Love and Light, Where Death’s cold touch can never blight The buds most precious to the sight— The Power Divine Hath given to my fostering care, A youthful band of spirits fair. Thus are they mine. Sweet blossoms from the earthly spring— Weak fledglings with the untried wing— Dear lambs—such as the angels bring, With tenderest love, From earthly storms and tempests cold, Safe to the warm and sheltering fold, In heaven above. O, gentle mothers of the earth, Who gave these precious spirits birth, Your homes have lost their sounds of mirth But not in Death’s embrace they sleep— Nay, gentle mothers, cease to weep— They dwell with me. There, ’mid the amaranthine bowers, Through all the long, bright, gladsome hours, Your loved ones tend their birds and flowers, And often come With gifts of love and garlands bright, To gladden, with their forms of light, Your earthly home. Their gentle lips to yours are pressed, Their heads are pillowed on your breast, And in your loving arms they rest, For they are given By Him whose ways are ever kind, As precious links of love, to bind Your souls to heaven. O, could the sunshine of the heart Dispel the blinding tears that start, And all your doubts and fears depart— Those forms, concealed Like blossoms ’neath the shades of night, Before your spirit’s quickening sight Would stand revealed. They still are yours, and yet are mine; I teach them of the Life Divine, And lead them to the truth’s pure shrine, That evermore, Through heavenly wisdom understood, The True, the Beautiful, the Good, They may adore. They know no griefs, they shed no tears, For perfect love dispels their fears, And through their life’s eternal years, They haste to meet The humblest duty of the way, And every call of love obey With willing feet. O, ye who tears of anguish shed Above some empty cradle-bed, Where once reposed a precious head— Be reconciled. For yet your longing eyes shall see, In heaven’s broad sunshine, glad and free, Your spirit child. They are all there—they are all there— The young, the beautiful, the fair; They know no want, they feel no care. But quickened in their spirit’s powers, Life crowns with her immortal flowers Each shining head. Some are no longer weak and small, But fair, and beautiful, and tall; And yet I call them children all, For they believe, With child-like faith, the truths I teach, And render back in simple speech What they receive. They are more precious in my sight Than all the radiant gems of light That on the royal brow of night Arise and shine; And through a pure maternal love, Known even in the world above, I call them mine. O, ask them not for earth again, The bitter cup of grief to drain, To tread in sorrow and in pain Life’s thorny track. Love’s rainbow arch to heaven they crossed; Gone, but not dead—unseen, not lost— Call them not back. O, gentle mothers, cease to weep; The faithful shepherd of the sheep The tender little lambs will keep. ’Mid shadows dim, Lean calmly on the Father’s breast— “He giveth his belovÉd rest”— Trust ye in him. |
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