Daily evening star. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1852-1854, 1854-03-11
THE CHILD Is DEAD.

-..r-r THE CHILD Is DEAD.
1t is hard to believe it; that we shall
no more hear the glad voice, nor meet
the merry laugh that burst so often from
its glad heart. ~ ,-t-l -s-.
Child as it was, it was pleasant
child, and to the partial parent there are
traits of loneliness that no other eye may
see~- 1t was wise ordering'of Provi-
dence that we should love our own chill
dren as no one else loves them, and as
we love the children of none besides.
And ours was lovely child.
: But the child is dead. You may put
away it's playthings. Put them where
they will be safe. Iwould not like to
have them broken Or lost; and you 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.
Its clothes YOU may lay aside; shall
often look them over, and each VI the
colors that he wore will remind me of
him as he looked when he was here.
shall weep often when / think of him;
but there is luxury in thinking of the
one that is gone, which would not part
with tor the world. think of my child
now, child always, though an angel
among angels.
The child is dead. The eye has lost
it's lustre. The hand is still and cold.
It's little heart is not beating now. How
paleit looks Yet the very form is dear
to me. Every lock of its hair, every
feature of the face, is a treasure that
shall prize the more, as the months of
my sorrow come and 90.
- Inv the little one in his coffin. He
was never in so cold and hard bed, but
he will feel it not. He would not know
1T, if he had been laid in his cradle, or in
his mothers arms. Throw a flower or
two by his side; like them be withered.
Garry him out to the grave. Gently.
It's hard road this to the grave. Every
jar seems to disturb the infant sleeper.
Here we are, at the brink of the sepul-
chre. 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 smothered sound from the
grave is saying-gcne, gone, gone! 1t
Is full now. Lay the turfgently over the
dear child. Plant 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. He
is not there he is risen.
/ shall think of the form that is mould.
ering here among the dead and it will
be mournful comfort to come at times,
and think of Ike 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 the language to ex-
press the joy, in the midst Of tears, 1 feel
that my sin, in making an idol of the
child, has not made that infant less dear
to Jesus. Nay, there is even something
that tells me the Saviour called the darl-
ing from me, that might love the Sa-
viour more when had one child less to
love. He knoweth our frame; he knows
the way to win and bind us. Dear Sa-
Viour, As thou hast my lamb, give me too
place in thy bosom. Set me as q seal
on thy heart. ...
And now let US 90 back into the house.
1t is strangely changed. 1t is silent and
cheerless, gloomy even. When did
enter this door without the greet of those
lips and eyes, that l shall greet no mere
Can the absence of but one produce so
great change so soon! When one OF
the children was away On visit, we did
not feel the absence as we do now. That
was for time; this is for ever. He will
not return. Hank. I thought for a mo-
ment it was the child, but it was only
my own hearts yearning for the lost.
He will not come again.