That gentle heart has ceas’d to feel
    The gushings of a mother’s love;
  But now a purer, holier flame,
    Springs up in brighter realms above.

  And mother, though the tender tie
    Uniting us, has thus been riven,
  May we not feel a stronger bond
    Drawing our trusting hearts to heaven?

  Now oft when evening’s shadows steal
    Across my path, thy voice I hear;
  Again its well remember’d tones
    Seem murmuring on my childish ear.

  And oft, when sorrow fills my breast,
    And my worn spirit turns from earth,
  There comes a gentle, well known voice,
    Whisp’ring of the spirit’s birth.

  ’Twas hers to guide our infant feet
    In wisdom’s straight and narrow way,
  To lead us to a Saviour’s cross,
    And teach our infant lips to pray.

  But now how blissful is her state,
    Free from this cumb’rous, earthly clod,
  Her ransom’d spirit fill’d with praise,
    Joins the pure throngs that worship God.

  She’s join’d her children in their home,
    In those bless’d mansions far away,
  Where sin nor death can ever come,
    But all is bright, eternal day.

  And though our mother’s pass’d from earth,
    An angel bending from the skies,
  Is ever hov’ring o’er our path,
    Urging our weary souls to rise.

  Then let us her sweet precepts take,
    Tread in the paths our mother trod,
  Walk prayerfully the narrow way. 
    Directed by the word of God,

  Cleans’d by a dying Saviour’s blood,
    We may obtain the promis’d rest;
  And when we pass away from earth,
    Join our dear mother with the bless’d.

  Peace to thy memory, mother dear,
    Sweet be thy slumber in the tomb,
  ’Till Christ in judgment shall appear,
    And call His ransom’d children home.

The Music of Earth.

  There’s music in the summer breeze,
    That sighs along the bow’rs;
  There’s music in the hum of bees,
    That flit among the flow’rs. 
  There’s music in the gentle show’r
    That patters on the spray;
  And music in the bubbling brook
    That dances on its way. 
  There’s music in the rustling leaf,
    Before the zephyr’s sigh,
  And music in sweet childhood’s laugh,
    As it comes ringing by. 
  There’s music in the warbler’s song,
    That trills his matin lay;
  And music in the evening breeze,
    As soft it dies away. 
  There’s music in “Old Ocean’s” wave,
    That breaks upon the shore;
  And music in the tempest’s moan,—­
    The distant thunder’s roar. 
  There’s music in the things of earth,
    Sweet music that we love;
  But oh, there’s music sweeter far
    In yon bright world above. 
  Where angel bands, with golden harps,
    Sing loud of sins forgiven;
  And praises to a Saviour slain,
    Fill the high dome of heaven.