  A SKETCH FROM LIFE.—BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE. I. To mark, the sufferings of the babe That cannot speak its wo; To see the infant tears gush forth, Yet know not why they flow; To meet the meek, uplifted eye, That fain would ask relief, Yet can but tell of agony— This is a mother's grief. II. Through dreary days and darker nights, To trace the march of death; To hear the faint and frequent sigh, The quick and shortened breath; To watch the last dread strife draw near, And pray that struggle brief, Though all be ended with the close— This is a mother's grief. III. To see, in one short hour, decayed The hope of future years; To feel how vain a father's prayers, How vain a mother's tears: To think the cold grave now must close O'er what was once the chief Of all the treasured joys of earth— This is a mother's grief. IV. Yet when the first wild throb is past Of anguish and despair, To lift the eye of faith to heaven, And think 'My child is there!' This best can dry the gushing tear, This yields the heart relief, Until the Christian's pious hope O'ercomes a mother's grief. |
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