328.

LITTLE CHILDREN BLESSED.

But the disciples with officious zeal

Silenced the suppliant with this stern rebuke— "Why troublest thou the Master?"

Jesus heard,

And in displeasure turned his radiant eye
With a reproving glance on him that spake;
Then in a voice of calm authority,

With gentle accents briefly thus replied―
"Suffer these little ones to come to me,
Nor let them be forbidden-for of such
My Father's kingdom is."

Then Jesus took the infant in his arms,
And gently, with his blessed hand, put back
The silken curls that clustered on its brow;
And, bending o'er it, pressed his holy lips
Upon the stainless forehead of the babe-
Making the brow of childhood, from that hour,
A thing of holiness-the only shrine
Which the Redeemer hallowed with a kiss.

"Suffer these little ones to come to me,"
Was the command of Him who, on the cross,
Bowed his anointed head, and with his blood
Purchased redemption for our fallen race-
And blessed they! who to that holy task
Devote the energies of their young years;
Teaching with pious care, the dawning light
Of infant intellect to know the Lord:

LITTLE CHILDREN BLESSED.

Thrice blessed they! who guide, with gentle hand,
The timid steps of childhood in that path

Which, rightly trodden, leads the wanderers home,
Where they shall meet the teachers and the taught,
On that blest Sabbath, which shall have no end,

C. Huntingdon.

329

The Ruler's Faith.

"Come, lay thy hand upon her, and she shall live." And Jesus arose and followed him, and so did his disciples.-ST. MATTHEW ix. 18, 19.

DEATH Cometh to the chamber of the sick:

The ruler's daughter, like the peasant's child,
Turns pale as marble. Hark! that hollow moan,
Which none may soothe, and then the last faint breath
Subsiding with a shudder.

Deep the wail

That speaks an idol fallen from the shrine.
Of a fond parent's heart. A withered flower
Is there, oh mother, where thy proudest hope

Solaced itself with garlands, and beheld
New buddings every morn.

Father, 'tis o'er!

That voice is silent which had been thy harp,

Quickening thy footsteps nightly toward thy home,

Mingling, perchance, an echo all too deep

Even with thy temple worship,

Should deal with God alone.

THE RULER'S FAITH.

What stranger-step

Breaketh the trance of grief! Whose radiant brow
In meekness and in majesty doth bend

Beside the bed of death?

"She doth but sleep ;

The damsel is not dead."

A smothered hiss,

Contemptuous, rises from that wondering band,

Who beat the breast, and raise the license wail

Of Judah's mourning.

Look upon the dead!

Heaves not the winding-sheet? Those trembling lids,
What peers beneath their fringes, like the tint.
Of dewy violet? The blanched lips dispart,
And what a quivering long-drawn sigh restores
Their rose-leaf beauty. Lo! that clay-cold hand
Doth clasp the Master's, and, with sudden spring,
That shrouded sleeper, like a timid fawn,
Hides in her mother's bosom. Faith's strong root
Was in the parent's spirit, and its fruit

How beautiful!

Oh, mother! who doth gaze

Upon thy daughter, in that deeper sleep,

Which threats the soul's salvation, breathe her name

To thy Redeemer's ear, both when she smiles

In all her glowing beauty on the morn,

Or when at night her clustering tresses sweep
Her downy pillow, in the trance of dreams,
Or when at pleasure's beckoning she goes forth,
Or to the meshes of an early love

331

332

THE RULER'S FAITH.

Yields her young heart, be eloquent for her,
Take no denial, till the gracious hand,

Which raised the ruler's dead, give life to her,
That better life, whose power surmounts the tomb.

L. H. Sigourney.