The Caledonian. [volume] (St. Johnsbury, Vt.) 1837-1867, 1852-09-25
THE CHILD Is DEAD.

rom Thought, on the Death OF Little Children y
It is hard to believe it; that We shall no
more hear the glad voice. nor meet the mer-
+, laugh that burst so often from its glad
heart.
Child as il vast was aplcasant child and
to the partial parent there are traits OF love
Illness that no other eve may see. 1t was
wise ordering of Providence that we should
love our own children as no one else loves
thcm.and as we love the children of none be-
side And ours was lovely child.
But the child is dead You may put ava!
its pla-thin.s Put them where they will be
safe. would not like to have chem broken
or lost and Won need not lend them to other
children when they come to see us. 1t would
pain me to see them in other hands, much as
love to see children happy with their toys.
It, clothes Won may lay aside; ] shall often
look them over and each of the coors that
ne wore Will TcIlIlu Illc Vi ilIIll dS nC io'h''i
when he was here. shall weep often when
| think Of him; but there is luxury in think
ng of the one that is gone, which | would
not part with for the world. think of my
child now, child always, though an angel
among angels.
The child is dead The eve has lost its
lustrc. The hand Is still and cold. The lit
tie heart is not beating now. How pale II
looks. Yet the very form is dear to me-
Every lock of its lair, every feature OF the
face, is a treasure that | shall prize the more
az the months of my sorrow come and 90.
Law the little one in its coffin. lie was
never in so hard and cold bed but he will
feel it not. He would not know it, if he had
been laid in his cradle, or in his mother $
arms. Throw flower Or two by his side: =
like them he withc7eth.
Carry him out to the grave. Gently. 1t
is hard road this to the grave. Every jar
seems to disturb the infant sleeper. Here we
are, at the brink of the scpulchrc. Oh, how
damp, and dark, and cold But the dead do
not feel it. There is no pain, no fear, no
weeping there Sleep on now and take your
rest
Fill it up, Ashes to ashes, dust TO dust =
Every clod seems to fall on my heart. Every
smothcrcd sound from the grave is saying.
Gone. gone, gone. 1t is full now. Lay the
turf gently over the dear child Plant a
myrtle among the Sods, and let the little one
sleep among the trees and flowers. Our child
is not there. His dust, precious dust indeed.
is there, but our child is in heaven. lie is
not here, he is risen.
shall think of the form that is Wondering
here among the dead and it will be mourn
full comfort to come at times, and think OF the
child that was once the light of our house,
and the idol-ah that must own the secret
of this sorrow the idol of my heart.
And it is beyond all language to express
the iov, in the midst of tears. | feel, that my
sin, in making an idol Of my child, has not
made that infant less dear to Jesus Nay.
there is even something that tells me the Sd
rior called the darling from me, that might
love the Savior more when had one child
less to love- He knoweth our frame he
knoweth the way to win and bind lis. Dear
Savior. as thou hast my lamb, give me, too, a
place in thy bosom Set me as a seal on thy
heart