Classic Poem

Our little Mary was dying. The film had gathered over those deep blue
orbs, and her emaciated form lay white as polished marble stretched
out on her little cradle, around which were gathered sympathizing
friends, watching the feeble lamp of life as it burned flickering
in its socket. The grandmother and aunt had been summoned from an
adjoining village, where they had gone upon a visit the previous
morning; and Emma, a sweet cousin not two years old, stood wondering
why little Mary did not smile upon her, as she usually did, for she
had never looked upon death.

Mary had ever been a fragile child. But her mother had clung to her
with all the devotion of a mother's love. Anxiously did she watch that
little pale form, pressing it to her heart, and gazing upon it with
fond maternal pride, day by day, and night after night, unmindful of
food or sleep, so that she might relieve the suffering of her precious
babe; and ever would she say it will soon be better. One week
succeeded another, and still there was no change for the better. But
oh, how deep was the fountain of that mother's love, and the feeble
wailing of that dear infant moved all its secret springs.

A physician was consulted, who spoke hopefully, but nothing seemed to
help her.

Through the summer months, the salubrity of the air revived her some,
and the mother would wander with her round the garden, placing the
sweetest flowers in her hand, or sitting beneath the shade of trees,
she would listen for hours to the murmur of the summer breeze that
sighed among the branches, or the humming of the bee as it sipped the
sweets from surrounding flowers, delighted that her darling Mary might
thus inhale the pure breath of heaven. And when those large, soul lit
orbs were closed in sweet slumber, and the little fragile form could
rest for a short time, the mother would lift her heart to God in
gratitude and thanksgiving.

Summer passed with its weary watching, and her disease assumed a more
deffinite appearance, and the mother felt that Mary must die.

'Twas early autumn; the mother purchased some flannel and prepared a
robe for her darling, with a mother's pride, believing that that would
be beneficial to her. It was late in the evening when the task was
completed, and a neat white apron was hung upon the nail over it, and
the impatient mother waited the approach of day that she might place
it upon her little form. O how strongly did the bright red robe
contrast with the lily whiteness of that lovely babe. The tiny hands,
as they peeped from beneath their long sleeves, looked like two white
lilies intermingled with the thick clustering blossoms of the running
rose. The mother looked upon her with pleasure as she saw her so
comfortably clad, and hoped the increased warmth would improve her
health, but when she bore her to her father, saying, "here is our
doll;" he turned away his dewy eyes, for he saw that she was fading
away from earth.

"O Albert," said Carrie, "does she not look now as though she might
live?"

He could not bear to crush the last hope in the heart of his young
wife, and remained silent.

She continued,

"No one gives me any encouragement, but I do feel more hopeful about
her this morning, for she rested better through the night than she has
done for several nights."

While she was yet speaking, a piercing shriek broke from the lips of
the child, every feature expressed extreme agony, and the last ray of
hope in the heart of that young mother went out forever.

From that time, her precious one failed fast. Vomiting succeeded, and
the little fountain of strength was ebbing fast away. Little did
the poor mother think, when she arrayed her little infant in her
comfortable flannel robe, it would be the last time she would be
dressed till she was wrapped in her shroud for the silent grave.

During the night her feeble frame was attacked by severe spasms, and
shriek after shriek filled the heart of the mother with unutterable
anguish. When that subsided she lay cold and pulseless, with the damp
dews of death upon her marble forehead. Little hope was entertained of
her surviving till morning. But the grim messenger delayed his work,
and morning again awoke all nature to life and beauty.

It was a cool day, and the running rose bush that clambered over the
door, was laden with withered flowers that had lived their little day
and faded before the early autumn winds. Many a hardier flower was
blooming brightly, and lifting their heads seemingly in proud defiance
of the chilling winds that were blowing round them. One little bud
enveloped in its casing of green that hung waving over the door, was
perishing in its beauty, even like the little cradled innocent, that
even then was passing away before the icy breath of the dark plumed
angel. A hasty despatch was sent for the maternal grandmother and
aunt, and the grandmother upon the father's side was present, and
together we watched the failing breath of the dying child. Six brief
months only had she lingered upon earth, and now she was to depart
forever. Many, as they sat in that chamber of death, felt how
mysterious are the Providences of God. The dried and the withered
leaf, the full blown flower, and the opening bud were there, and all
were spared, while the youngest one of the group was passing away and
teaching the one great lesson, "All flesh is grass, and the goodliness
thereof as the flower of the field."

Little Emma stood gazing upon her with an expression of wonder, and
when told little Mary would soon be an angel, she raised her blue eyes
and smilingly said, "O Emma will have an angel cousin;" thus teaching
a lesson of faith and trust.

When the shadows of evening gathered around us, the doctor came in
and was surprised to find her still living. As she had not swallowed
during the day, he was surprised upon applying a sponge wet in water
to her lips to find that she swallowed rather eagerly and without any
difficulty until she had taken several drops. He told the mother she
had better prepare some warm milk and water, and drop a little of it
into her mouth as long as she continued to swallow. Hope sprung up
in her heart, perhaps she might yet live, and quick as lightning the
recollection of many children who had been snatched from the very jaws
of death, passed through her memory. But while she was making the
preparation, the little bosom heaved one gentle sigh, and we felt that
Mary was an angel. One glance, one wild scream, and the mother fell
almost fainting into the arms of her husband.

The crimson robe that was placed upon her with so many hopes by the
fond hands of a mother, was removed by other hands, and the little
body was prepared for the tomb. The mother gazed upon her with tearful
eyes and an aching heart.

It was a mild, peaceful Sabbath day when they bore her to the tomb.
The mother placed a robe of white flannel upon her, imprinting as she
did so, many kisses on the lily arms she had kissed so many times in
all their warmth of living loveliness, when, with a smile upon her
lips, and gladness in her eye, she raised them to her mother's lips to
receive the proffered tokens of affection.

And so they placed her in her coffin, with a tiny rosebud in either
hand (for she would ever hold flowers longer than any thing else), to
wither in their beauty with her, the pale perishing one. And the holy
man read from the word of God the impressive lesson, "Behold thou hast
made my days as a hand's breadth, and my age is as nothing before
thee;" and offered up fervent prayer in behalf of the afflicted
mourners, and little Mary was borne to the silent tomb.

O, who that listened to that gentle autumn breeze that so softly
sighed among the trees, and fanned the flower that bent slightly
before it, but must feel that there is a God that orders the winds and
the sea, and rules over the destinies of men.

Sad were the hearts of the stricken parents as they returned to their
little cottage, where everything reminded them of their dear lost
child.

Emma stood beside the vacant cradle, and asked many questions about
the departed cousin.

"Why did they take her from her cradle and put her in that little
box?" But was ever comforted by calling her her angel cousin.

But time passed on, and other changes came. They left their cottage
home where this great grief had rested upon them. Another darling
Mary was given them, and found a warm place in their affections. The
husband soon left his wife and child, and sought to build up his
fortune in a distant land, while the wife and mother dedicates her
time to the care of the dearly loved treasure her heavenly Father has
committed to her trust.

One brief year sped rapidly away, and winter again returned with his
winds. It was a wild night, the wintry winds howled fiercely round
the dwelling, and pelted the snow and sleet furiously against the
casement, when Mrs. Barlow, after attending to those duties that make
a New England home so comfortable, dropped her crimson curtains, and
seating herself by a comfortable coal fire, commenced preparing her
little Emma for bed.

"Oh," said she, "how the wind blows, mamma; what do poor little
children do that have no home?"

Said her mother, "God tempers the wind, my dear, to the shorn lamb."

"Mamma, do you know I am going to have a party and go to heaven and
invite my angel cousin?"

"Are you, indeed."

"But mamma, it is time to say our Father now," and the happy mother
listened to her dear child as she clasped her hands and lisped the
Lord's prayer, and the appropriate "now I lay me," after which she
soon dropped into a peaceful slumber.

Thus evening was spent after evening with the mother and her dear
child, happy in each other's love.

Winter passed, and genial spring came forth in infantile beauty,
unbending the streamlets from their icy fetters, and swelling the buds
upon the trees, thus making her early preparation for future beauty
and usefulness.

Emma awoke early one Sabbath morning, and leaving her little crib,
nestled down beside her mother. After laying quiet some time, she
asked suddenly,

"Is it Sunday, mamma?"

Being answered in the affirmative, she said,

"It would be a beautiful day to die. Less die to-day, papa, mamma, and
Emma, and go to heaven, and get our golden harps; you have a great
one, you and papa, and Emma will have a little one like my little
angel cousin."

A shade of sadness passed over the mother's face, but rested not upon
it. The form of her darling child was in her arms, her downy cheek
resting against her own, and the bright blue eyes gazing earnestly
into hers with a volume of meaning in their azure depths.

"But you must get up now, for it is a beautiful Sabbath day, and we
shall go to meeting to-day, and the minister will pray for us to God.
O how glad I am," and the dear child clapped her dimpled hands with
delight.

And so they went to church Sabbath after Sabbath, while Emma ever
seemed to enjoy the services, often making observations upon what
she heard. She inquired every day if it were Sunday; and Saturday
evenings her play things were all carefully laid aside, and she
expressed great sympathy for poor little children that played upon
that day.

The story of the cross would affect her to tears, and yet she loved
to dwell upon it, and it was with great effort her attention could be
withdrawn from it.

One rosy twilight hour, when the departed beams of the sun still
lingered, tinging the curtains of the west with those bright and
gorgeous hues that so frequently surround him at his setting. Emma and
her mother sat down to spend that happy hour together, and gaze upon
the scene.

Spring was rapidly advancing, and the face of nature was lovely to the
eye. The half open buds upon the trees shed sweet perfume, and birds
carolled their evening songs on every spray.

But the things of earth, beautiful though they were, could not satisfy
the mind of the child, and when the golden stars spangled the blue
canopy above, she talked of golden harps, of her angel cousin, and the
mysteries of that unseen world,

"Beyond planets, suns, and adamantine spheres."

Suddenly assuming a more thoughtful expression, she said,

"O mamma, what would you do if Emma should die? You would have to
carry away my crib and little chair, and put all my play things away,
and you would have no little Emma. O mamma, how lonesome you would
be;" and bursting into a convulsive fit of sobbing she flung her arms
around her mother's neck and wept upon her bosom. Tears too, dimmed
the mother's eyes as she pressed her fondly to her heart, and kissed
away her tears, while a painful thought went through her heart, "can
it be her conversation is prophetic?"

She soothed her troubled spirit, spoke of the joys of heaven, and
after listening to her childish prayer, laid her in her little crib
with a sweet good night murmured in her ear. Returning to her sitting
room, long and sadly she reflected upon the words of her darling
child, and tried to fathom their import, and earnestly did she pray
that night, "Our Father, prepare me for whatsoever thou art preparing
for me, and enable me ever to say, 'thy will be done;'" and she
retired to rest with a subdued spirit, feeling an indefinable
presentiment of coming sorrow.

The glad light of morning in a measure dissipated the shadows of the
previous evening, and the mother and daughter met with a pleasant
greeting,--the little girl busied about her play, while her mother
attended to her domestic duties. They frequently interchanged cheerful
words. Emma would sometimes personate a house-maid, and assist her
mother in dusting and arranging the furniture. But suddenly dropping
all, she stood by her side, and looking earnestly up into her face,
said,

"O mamma, you may have all my clothes next summer."

"Why, Emma," replied her mother, "you will want them yourself."

"O no, mamma, I shall not want them; you may have my little brella,
and all."

The mother's cheek blanched, and a fearful pang again shot through her
heart.

"O Emma, don't talk so, you will wear them all yourself."

"O no, mamma, you may have them;" and seating herself in her little
chair, she sat long, looking thoughtful and serious.

It was morning, bright beautiful morning. The swelling buds had burst
their confines, and the apple, pear, peach, cherry, and plum trees
that surrounded the house, were thickly covered with sweet scented,
many colored blossoms, that gave promise of a rich harvest of
delicious fruit. The birds warbled their matin songs in sweet melody;
the honey bees with drowsy hum, were sipping sweets to horde their
winter's store; and every thing seemed rejoicing in the light of that
glad morning. Even Crib, the great house dog, lay sunning himself on
the door step with a satisfied look, snapping at the flies that buzzed
around him.

But Emma could not arise to look out upon the joyful face of nature.
She lay pale and languid upon the bed, telling her mother she was too
sick to get up, that she could stay alone while she ironed her clothes
which she had starched the night before: but wished her to shut the
door to keep out the light and noise.

The mother pursued her task with a sad heart, but often would she
unclose the door and look in upon the pale child, and show her some
article of dress she had been preparing for her. She would look up
with a smile and say,

"O good mamma, how nice they look;" then closing her eyes drop into a
deep, heavy sleep.

She grew rapidly worse, and the doctor who was called to visit her,
pronounced it scarlet fever, that fearful malady among children, but
thought her symptoms favorable.

Every attention was bestowed upon her that affection could give; but
the disease rapidly increased.

The fire of a terrible fever was raging in her veins, and drying up
the fountain of her young life. In the wildness of delirium she would
start suddenly from the arms of her mother, and pierce her heart by
begging to be carried to her own dear mother.

The fifth day of her disease it assumed a more alarming appearance,
her extremiti