POETRY

MOTHER WHAT IS DEATH?

'Mother, how still the baby lies-

I cannot hear its breath:

'I cannot see his laughing eyes-

They tell me this is death.

My little work I thought to bring,

And set down by his bed,

And pleasantly I tried to sing?

They hushed me-he is dead.

They say that he again will rise,

More beautiful than now;

That God will bless him in the skies,

O mother, tell me how?'

'Daughter, do you remember dear,

The cold dark thing you brought,

And laid upon the casement here,

A wither'd worm, you thought?

I told you that Almighty power

Could break the withered shell,

And show you in a future hour

Something would please you well.

Look at the chrysalis, my love,

An empty shell it lies?

Now raise your wandering glance above,

To where yon insect flies!'

'Oh; yes, mamma! how very gay

Its wings of starry gold-

And see! it lightly flies away

Beyond my gentle hold!

Oh, mother, now I know full well-

If God that worm can change,

And draw it from his broken cell,

On golden wings to range.

How beautiful will brother be,

When God shall give him wings,

Above this dying world to flee,

And live with heavenly things.'