THE CHILD OF A YEAR AND A DAY.

To grief the night-hours keeping, A mournful mother lay Upon her pillow, weeping— Her babe had passed away.

When she had clasped her treasure A year and yet a day, Of time 't was all its measure— 'T was gone, like morning's ray!

The jewel, Heaven had shown her, Of worth surpassing gold, Was lent her, by its Owner— 'T was never earth's to hold.

Then, fondly hovering o'er her, A bright young angel hung; And warm the love it bore her, And sweet the song it sung:

"O mother, why this weeping? Let all thy sorrow cease: My infant form is sleeping, Where nought can break its peace.

"And he, who once was blessing Such little children here, My spirit now possessing, Will hold me ever dear.

"I never knew the dreading Of death's all-conquering blow; My mortal raiment shedding, I rose above the foe.

"Where sickness cannot pain me— Where comes nor grief nor night— Where sin shall never stain me, I dwell, a child of light.

"While many a pilgrim hoary Treads long earth's weary way, I have eternal glory For one short year and day."

Yet that sweet angel singing Its mother could not hear, For grief her heart was wringing— She 'd but a mortal ear.

She could not see the beaming Of his celestial crown; For fast her tears were streaming; Her soul to dust bowed down.

A voice from heaven then falling In soothing tones to her, As of a Father, calling, Revealed the Comforter.

And, lifting up her lowly And sorrow-laden eye, She saw the King all holy Upon the throne Most High.

Where shining hosts were pouring Their praises forth to Him, She saw her child adoring, Amid the Seraphim.