Volume XXII - Monroe County Library System

Central Library of Rochester and Monroe County · Historic Serials Collection
28 THE HOSPITAL REVIEW.
On the Death of an Infant Daughter.
BY DUDLEY PHELPS.
The sweetest voice is hushed,
The loveliest smile is gone;
The foot of Death has crushed
My child—my dearest one,
Was there no other place to tread,
That he must trample on thy head ?
That foot is on my heart,
With all its fatal weight;
It mangles every part,
And lays me desolate ;
The pain of more than death is mine,
The lighter pang, dear child, was thine.
How drear the household hearth !
How dark is every room !
There is no light on earth,
To dissipate the gloom.
Before we prized them, joys are fled—
Tears for the living—not the dead.
Away beyond the tomb,
Sweet spirit, thou art flown,
Where loveliness can bloom,
And blighting is unknown ;
My faith would trace thine upward way,
And catch of Heaven some cheering ray.
One short and happy year
Thou smiledst, on us below;
We hoped to keep thee here
Till we were called to go ;
But God takes back the blessing lent,
Though we our weaker claims present.
To tbee it was not given
To speak with mortal tongue :
The dialect of Heaven
Already hast thou sung.
Too hard our speech—too slow our ways ;
Angels must teach thee words of praise.
What we cannot discern,
Thine eyes can plainly see ;
How much have we to learn,
If we would equal thee !
Thine infant spirit near the throne.
Excels all mind that earth hath known.
Our selfish hearts had bound thee,
To hold thee back from bliss :
Now glory beams around thee
In brighter worlds than this.
Farewell till guardian angels come
To bear us to thy happy home.
Hundreds of stars in the pretty evening sky,
Hundreds of shells on the shore together;
Hundreds of birds that go singing by,
Hundreds of bees in the sunny weather ;
Hundreds of dew-drops to greet the dawn,
Hundreds of lambs in the purple clover \
Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn,
But only one mother the wide world over.
On Saturday, August 29th, the "'Autocrat,"
whom all delight to honor,
passed his seventy-sixth birthday. The
dinner, at Beverly Farms, with only
three guests, was a quiet, informal affair,
but after it the neighbors and the
neighbors' children called to congratulate
the doctor, and wish him ' • many
happy returns of the day." At length,
with such a show of letters and telegrams
and flowers pouring upon him,
he said " This is more than my last
birthday." A raised-letter volume of
his poems was presented him from
" The Perkins Asylum for the Blind,"
and tender messages came to him from
all quarters, none more touching than
that of the venerable Quaker poet and
friend. This is the eheery little note
which Mr. Whittier sent to Oliver
Wendall Holmes:
My Dear Holmes: Amidst the
thanks and congratulations of thy
birthday, I hope the kindly remembrance
of thy old friend will not be unwelcome.
My father used to tell of a
poor innocent in his neighborhood,
who, whenever he met him would fall
to laughing, crying and dancing. "I
can't help it, sir. I can't help it. I'm
so glad you and I are alive ! " And I,
like the poor fellow, can't help telling
thee that I am glad thee and I are alive
—glad that thy hand has 4ost nothing
of its cunning, and thy pen is still busy.
And I say in the words of Solomon of
old : " Rejoice, O young man in thy
youth, and let thy heart cheer thee in
the days of thy youth;" but don't
exult over thy seniors who have not
found the elixir of life and are growing
old and " past their usefluness." I have
just got back from the hill and am tired,
and a pile of unanswered letters are befor
me this morning, so I can only say,
God bless thee.
If our religion is not true, we are
bound to change it; if it is true, we are
bound to propagate it.—Archbishop
Whately.
" 'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all I"