The Last Rose-bud.
The child was radiant with delight,
As from the garden's shade,
With golden ringlets clustering bright,
She burst upon the mother's sight,
And in her hand, like fairy sprite,
A blooming rose-bud laid.
'Twas the last wreath by summer wove
That thus the darling brought,
For Autumn's breath had chill'd the grove;
Oh mother! was that gift of love
With aught of sadness fraught?
Say, didst thou think how soon that head
In silent earth would rest?
A solemn curtain o'er it spread,
And the green turf she joy'd to tread,
A covering for her breast?
But, for the buds that fade no more,
Look thou in faith above,
Look, mother! where the seraphs soar,
Where countless harps their music pour,
And raptur'd cherubim adore
The God of boundless love.
The Cherub's Welcome.
Among the bright-robed host of heaven, two cherubs were filled with new rapture. Gladness that mortal eye hath never seen beamed from their brows, as with tuneful voices they exclaimed,
"Joy! joy! He cometh! Welcome, welcome, dear brother!" And they clasped in their arms a new immortal.
Then to their golden harps they chanted, "Thou shalt weep no more, our brother, neither shall sickness smite thee. For here is no death, neither sorrow, nor sighing."
At the Saviour's feet they knelt together with their warbled strain, "Praise be unto Thee, who didst say, 'Suffer little children to come unto Me.'