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 watched Her sleeping babe. There was an answering voice That night in dreams. "Thou hast a little bud Wrapt in thy breast, and fed with dews Of love; give me that bud,'twill be A flower in heaven." But there was silence, yea, a hush so deep, Breathless and terror-stricken, That the lip Blanched in its trance- "Thou hast a little harp How sweetly would it swell the Angels' songs! Give me that harp." There burst a shuddering sob As if the bosom, by some hidden sword, Was cleft in twain.

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