The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,
      The blood its crimson hue, from mine—­
    This life, which I have dared invoke,
      Henceforth is parallel with thine.

    A silent awe is in my room—­
      I tremble with delicious fear;
    The future with its light and gloom,
      Time and Eternity are here.

    Doubts—­hopes, in eager tumult rise;
      Hear, O my God! one earnest prayer:—­
    Room for my bird in Paradise,
      And give her angel plumage there!

  Maulmain, January, 1848.

The following touching lines show that she could skilfully employ her ready pen in consoling those on whom had fallen the stroke of bereavement: 

    LINES

Addressed to a missionary friend in Burmah on the death of her little boy, thirteen months old, in which allusion is made to the previous death of his little brother.

    A mound is in the graveyard,
      A short and narrow bed;
    No grass is growing on it,
      And no marble at its head: 
    Ye may sit and weep beside it
      Ye may kneel and kiss the sod,
    But ye’ll find no balm for sorrow,
      In the cold and silent clod.

    There is anguish in the household,
      It is desolate and lone,
    For a fondly cherished nursling
      From the parent nest has flown;
    A little form is missing;
      A heart has ceased to beat;
    And the chain of love lies shattered
      At the desolator’s feet.

    Remove the empty cradle,
      His clothing put away,
    And all his little playthings
      With your choicest treasures lay;
    Strive not to check the tear drops,
      That fall like summer rain,
    For the sun of hope shines thro’ them—­
      Ye shall see his face again.

    Oh! think where rests your darling,—­
      Not in his cradle bed;
    Not in the distant graveyard,
      With the still and mouldering dead
    But in a heavenly mansion,
      Upon the Saviour’s breast,
    With his brother’s arms about him,
      He takes his sainted rest.

    He has put on robes of glory
      For the little robes ye wrought;
    And he fingers golden harp strings
      For the toys his sisters brought. 
    Oh, weep! but with rejoicing;
      A heart gem have ye given,
    And behold its glorious setting
      In the diadem of Heaven.

The following letter and beautiful poems need little explanation.  The letter is addressed to some of Dr. Judson’s children, who resided in Worcester, Massachusetts, having been sent home from India to be educated in America.  His health having failed, Dr. J. had sailed for the Isle of Bourbon for its restoration, and it was during his absence that these effusions were penned.

Maulmain, April 11, 1850.

         My very dear Children,