The rite is done.  The softly murmured hymn which concludes it, has died upon the balmy evening air.  The partakers of the Lord’s Supper have departed.  The pastor has for the last time pressed the hand which has so recently subscribed to the covenant of the church, and he, too, has taken his final leave.  Relations alone remain in the chamber of death.  Solemnity broods over the spot.  The brothers who through life have looked to this now dying brother, as a father, guide, and friend, sit gazing on him in mournful silence, the tears slowly chasing each other down their manly cheeks, with something of the feeling of the prophet when it was told him, “Know thou that your master will be taken from your head to-day”.

The sisters watch and anticipate his wishes, till first one and then another is overcome by her emotion, and steals away to give it vent.  The wife, like a ministering spirit, silently wipes the clammy brow and moistens the parched lips.  But now the sick man speaks:  “Brother, will you bring mother’s portrait!  I would take my leave of that—­O, how soon shall I join her now.”  It is brought, and the heavy window curtains are thrown back, and it is placed at the foot of the bed with reverend care, which showed the veneration in which the original was held.

“Look, brother:  it smiles upon me!” and observing the astonished expression of his friends, the dying man continued in a less excited tone, “Do not suppose that my mind is wandering.  I assure you on the word of one who must shortly appear before a God of truth, that ever since my mother’s death the picture has frowned upon me.  I knew what it meant, for you have not forgotten her last prayer, and every time I have looked upon it I felt, while I continued to deny the divinity of our Savior, I could not expect my mother’s approbation or blessing.  For years I fought against the doctrine of the Holy Trinity, till I examined the subject more thoroughly, and to-day I have sealed my renunciation of that error, and have testified my faith in the atonement made for sinners.  The cross of Christ has drawn me with cords of love.  I wanted to see that portrait once more, and, lo, the frown is gone—­and my mother beams upon me the same sweet smile as when at sixteen years of age I left home a fatherless boy, to make my own way in the world.  Thank God I die in peace.”

My sketch is finished.  Shall I make the application?  Has not every mother’s heart made it already? asking the question, “Is my influence over my children such that when I am gone my portrait shall have such power over them for good?”

Cowper has embalmed his mother’s miniature in lines which will touch the heart while our language is preserved.  But this picture is hallowed by strains which are poured forth from angelic choirs, as they tune their harps anew “over one sinner that repenteth.”

The likeness of Cowper’s mother led him to mourn for past delights, but this picture led the son to look in humble joy to that blessed hope and glorious appearing of the great God and our Savior Jesus Christ.