"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 would it swell the
Angels' songs! Give me that harp."
There burst a shuddering sob
As if the bosom, by some hidden sword,
Was cleft in twain.
Morn came, a blight had found
The crimson velvet of the unfolding bud;
The harp-string 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 eye, and ere the tear-drop
Dried upon its fringes, smiled-
Doubt not that smile,
Like Abraham's faith,
"Was counted righteousness."