* * * * *

LI.

THE VOICE IN RAMAH.

“RACHEL WEEPING FOR HER CHILDREN, AND WOULD NOT HE COMFORTED, BECAUSE
THEY WERE NOT.”

    We have heard the voice in Ramah,
     The grief in the days of yore,
    When the beautiful “flowers of the martyrs”
     Went to bloom on another shore.

    The light of our life is darkness,
     And with sorrow we are not done;
    For thine is the bitterest mourning,
     Mourning for an only son!

    And what shall I utter to comfort
     The heart that is dearest of all? 
    Too young for the losses and crosses,
     Too young for the rise and the fall?

    O, yes; we own it, we own it;
     But not too young for the grace
    That was so nameless and blameless,
     For the yearning and tender embrace!

    He hung, he hung on thy bosom
     In that happiest, weariest hour,
    A dear little bird to its blossom,
     The beautiful, dutiful flower.

    And thus he grew by its sweetness,
     He grew by its sweetness so
    That smile unto smile responded—­
    But a little while ago!

    And you and I were happy
     In many a vision fair
    Of a ripe and glorious manhood
     Which the world and we should share.

    In a little while the patter
     Of two little feet was heard;
    And many a look it cheered us,
     A look that was more than a word.

    In a little while he uttered
     The words we longed to hear;
    And mamma and papa blessed him
     With a blessing of hope and fear.

    In a little while he budded,
     A bud of the promising Spring,
    And O for the beautiful blossom,
     And O for the fruit it will bring!

    The joy, they never may know it
     Who never have parents been,
    The joy of a swelling bosom,
     With a growing light within: 

    A light that is soft and tender,
     And growing in strength and grace,
    Which wreathes a form that is slender
     And glows in a dear little face!

    But life it knoweth the shadow,
     The shadow as well as the shine;
    For the one it follows the other,
     And both together are thine.

    For the bud it never unfolded,
     The light it flickered away,
    And whose is the power to utter
     The grief of that bitterest day?

    His form is yet before me,
      With the fair and lofty brow,
    And the day since last we kissed it—­
      Is it long since then and now?

    Dearest, it seems but a minute,
      Though Winter has spread the snow,
    Meek purity’s mantle to cover
      The one that is resting below.

    In the acre of God, that is yonder,
      And unto the west his head,
    He sleepeth the sleep untroubled,
      With one to watch at his bed.