Classic Poem

" What shall I render thee, Father supreme,
For Thy rich gifts, and this the best of all? "
Said a young mother, as she fondly watched
Her sleeping babe. There was an answering voice
That night in dreams: —
" Thou hast a little bud
Wrapt in thy breast, and fed with dews of love:
Give me that bud. 'Twill be a flower in heaven. "
But there was silence. Yea, a hush so deep,
Breathless, and terror stricken, that the lip
Blanched in its trance.
" Thou hast a little harp —
How sweetly it would swell the angel's hymn:
Give me that harp. " There burst a shuddering sob,
As if the bosom by some hidden sword
Were cleft in twain.
Morn came. A blight had struck
The crimson velvet of the unfolding bud;
The harp-strings rang a thrilling strain and broke —
And that young mother lay upon the earth,
In childless agony.
Again the voice
That stirred her vision: — " He who asked of thee
Loveth a cheerful giver. " So she raised
Her gushing eyes, and, ere the tear-drop dried
Upon its fringes, smiled — and that meek smile,
Like Abraham's faith, was counted righteousness.