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LETTERS. 185
Then hushed was the heart that uneasily beat,
A heart fond and loving, though erring and failing;
And silenced the voice that ’mid anguish was wailing
To Jesus to pardon her lover’s deceit.
The offspring of frailty and misery drear
Alone in the hut by the death-bed was playing;
O’er stiffening limbs his fond fingers were straying,
Caressing the mother who ’d held him so dear.
His look was bewildered, and pale was his cheek;
No word did he utter, though hungry and chilly;
A dog could have begged, but he, stricken and silly,
Though sorely in want, was unable to speak.
I looked in his face, and methought I saw there
Expression, though faintly for life it was striving;
A spark from the Author celestial, surviving,
Might yet burn brightly in life-giving air.
Now toll the church-bells, and the dead on a bier
To silence is borne in humble procession;
And wanting that noble, that precious possession, —
His reason, — the orphan walks carelessly near.
Oh, God! he ne’er dreameth that he has no more
A tender and motherly heart to watch o’er him;
That now from him taken has gone on before him
The one who in sorrow to sorrow him bore.
The coffin is raised from the black-covered bier;
Already deep down in the earth it is sinking:
Ah! none at this grave, of the lonely one thinking,
Will offer a flower, will weep but a tear.
The grave is soon filled, the cross stands in its place, «
A sign which to perishing sinners proclaimeth
And showeth that God, who this sinner reclaimeth,
Is full of compassion, and mercy, and grace.
His pale cheek he leaneth against the church wall, —
Neglected, forgotten; he now has no keeper;
While psalms for the last time are raised for the sleeper,
And slowly on breezes of evening they fall.
The sun has gone down while he rambles around,
But kind stars protectingly over him brighten,
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