Poems of the Heart and Home

by Mrs. J. C. Yule

Our mother slept
At eve in a poor, earthly home. At dawn
She stood upon the golden shore, a sainted one,
A victor crowned. We wept, as well we might,
When we looked down upon those folded hands
Whose tender touch had often thrilled along
Our baby temples,—those pale, patient hands
That toiled for us what time sweet slumber lay
On our young eyelids, and in sunny dreams
We gathered wild flowers on the hill-side green,
Or chased the butterfly 'mid orchard blooms,
While she, till the night waned, toiled bravely on—
Not for herself, but us, then knelt and prayed
For each young sleeper, ere herself might sleep.

This morn she slept, and every line that grief
Had ever left on her pale, settled face,
And every furrow care had ever traced
Upon her brow had faded in the calm
Of that blest slumber. Did we softly tread,
And hold our breath suspended, in vague fear
Of breaking the sweet spell, or all too soon
Rousing those tired feet to tread again
Their round of daily toil?—or did we check
Our rising grief, lest one o'er-lab'ring sob
From hearts so full, should banish the sweet smile
Which the glad vision of her Lord's dear face
Had left upon her lips? It may be so,—
And yet the hour of weeping was not long;
For, 'mid the light by mortal eyes unpierced,
We caught the gleam of her unsullied robe,
And we rejoiced, beholding her at home!

A little babe, a tiny, broken bud,
A snow-white, breathless lamb lay still and cold
Upon its mother's knees. She did not weep—
She did not pray; but with white, trembling lips
And stony gaze looked down upon her child,
And only moaned in gasping accents—"dead!
My tender babe, my lamb, my own sweet boy!—
Dead, silent, dead!"

Then sweet, as borne
O'er silver seas, there came a voice that said,
"Do not their angels evermore behold
My Father's face in Heaven?"—and, swift as thought,
Faith overswept the bounds of space, and caught
A glimpse of her beloved on Jesus' breast
Then tears gushed forth—a precious, healing flood—
And the lips murmured—"Safe, oh, safe at home!—
My bright boy waits at home, thank God, for me!"

Then let us ever when the righteous die
Speak of them joyously as gone before;
Not dead, but sweetly drawn within the veil
To the blest home we're nearing—to the house
Of Christ our Elder Brother, mansion fair,
Prepared and set in order by His hand,—
Their home, and ours to be; forevermore

SABBATH MEMORIES.

I love thee, Sabbath morn!—I cannot say
But 'tis because my father loved thee so,—
Because my mother's care-worn face would grow
So sweetly placid in thy peaceful ray;—

It may be, that is part of what endears
Thee, Sabbath, to my soul; for memory stirs
Old buried thoughts of his voice and of hers—
Heard never more on Earth—till sudden tears

So sadly sweet well up, I bid them flow,
They leave a Sabbath in the soul when past;
As when the sky, by April clouds o'ercast,
Shows fairer in the sun's returning glow.

I see the grass-grown lane we trod of old,
Dear father, sainted mother! while
The Sabbath sun looked down with loving smile,
And touched the hills and streams with rippling gold.