MY MOTHER'S DEATH.

It is a mournful song I sing--
A loving mother dead.
Who can so hard a tiding bring,
Or deeper sorrow bid.

THE MESSAGE.

Soft as an angel's breath,
Swift as the wings of death,
Through all the haunts of men,
By lake and by river,
Across forest and fen,
Onward they sped, paused they never.
By hamlet or hall,
Mystic their pall,
Hied as a spirit hidden from view,
Faithless nor wavering, ever more true.
Onward these words sped--
"Your mother is dead."
Quick as a dart,
Piercing the heart,
Bore they upon me;
Reeling the blow sent me.
Oh! for the woe lent me,
How could I stand.

THE AFFLICTOR.

Was it the hand of God lifted the rod?
Oh how hard does it seem, wonderful God!
Mighty and marvellous, we but behold
In wonder and awe Thy mysteries told--
The work of Thy hand
Throughout all the land,
Bearing on mankind--
Man frail and mortal.
Dark and ambiguous, mighty and grand,
All Thy works are;
Thee, whom all the angels adore,
Falling in prostration before
Thy radiant throne.
In beauty of state
The archangels wait,
Seeking Thy glory,
Great God, alone.
How shall we bend,
Seeking to lend
Humble adorance, worship before Thee?
How shall we yield us meekly submissive
Unto Thy will?
So prone is the heart oft to rebel,
Murmuring still;
From morning until night,
And
From darkness until light,
It doth rebel.
Send,
O Lord! the spirit of meekness,
And dispel
All turbulent thought
And vainglory sought.
We are but nought
In the presence of Thy greatness.

THE COMFORTER.

O Lord! reach us
Thy hand, rich in comfort and love;
Our grief soothe, and raise us above
The tide of woe in which we move;
In this loss console us; sweet may
Our mourning be; oh! let us say,
"God hath removed her; He took her away."
And, Lord, teach us
In all things Thy wisdom to see.
Thou wouldst not have us alway be
Wandering this vale of misery.

HER SUFFER