Vermont watchman and State journal. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1836-1883, 1871-12-20
The Bereayed Parents.

Once happy father. you need watch no
more, as you come from work, for the pet and
sunbeam Of thy existence The sweet face
that made thy whole heart glow with paron-
tai love will never greet thee on earth again
the little check that was so often pressed TO
thine is now like marble, in the icy hand Of
death the heart that once beat with loves
affection has ceased its throbbing forever the
rosy mouth that would smile at loving word
or kind caross, or quiver at a harsh look or
cold frown, is now Indifferent to both the
restless fingers will trouble you no more the
little feet that were ever pattering about will
never be heard again; and the clear, ringing
laugh, echoing through the house, filling it
with sweet melody, is now hushed forever.
Never again will the childish tongue utter
the sweet name of mother, aud the ear that
never before was deaf to thy loving voice
takes no notice of it now. The little dresses
will never more want an owner, for the form
they were wont to robe, in all its graceful
beauty, is soon to be laid down in the cold
and silent tomb
Put away the playthings, pick up the little
hali-worn shoes, bearing yet the imprint of
the chubby foot, a relic Of the past often to
be watered with a mothers tears. Push back
the curly locks, damp with the dews of death,
that cluster in liie-like beauty around the
marble brow. Gently close the pearly eye.
lids, which, in life, shone with such laughing
beauty. Tenderly straighten the stiffened
limbs, and press one more kiss on the childish
face, every lineament of which is engraved on
thine heart and as you take the last, long,
lingering look at the little form which, in
life, had never known a single want, be thank
ful, in all your agony, that the child so dear
to you had never, in all its life, like many
others, felt the awful pangs of hunger gnaw.
ing at the childish heart, or felt the bitter
cold freezing those little limbs.
Step for a moment into one of the alleys
of our city; into this miserable house, up
the creaking stairs, into this desolate home,
where there is a mother watching beside
the death-bed of her first-born she loved it
just as well as you loved yours but no soft
coverlet is thrown over it its childish face
is pressed against no downy pillow its little
form rests in no mahogony crib. All, no far
from it. The little one that has known moth
ing but cold and hunger, is lying now, in
death, on a heap of straw in one corner Of the
room, with tattered quilt for its only GOV.
ering The skeleton hands are calmly cross
ed on the tired little heart. The tiny fea.
lures are pinched with want, and the poor
little body is nothing but miserable frame
Of bones the wretched mother thanks God,
with tears streaming from her eyes that He
has called her little one home to where no
temptation can ever assail it.
Oh parents, when your little ones are call
ed away before their young hearts are con-
taminated with sin or crime, when they leave
sickness and sorrow for a home of perfect
bliss, never wish them back; for you know
that if they had remained here, it would be
impossible to conjecture to what depths ot
woe and vice they might have fallen.