Knoxville Weekly Chronicle

MY LAMBS.

I loved them so.
That, when the Elder Shepherd of the fold
Came, covered with the storm, and pale and
cold,
And begged for one of my sweet lambs to hold,
I bade him go.
He claimed the pet—
A little fondling thing that to my breast
Clung always, either in quiet or unrest—
I thought, of all my lambs, I loved him best,
And yet—and yet—
I laid him down
In those white, shrouded arms, with bitter tears:
For some voice told me that, in after years,
He should know naught of passion, grief or fears,
As I had known.
And yet, again
That Elder Shepherd came. My heart grew
faint.
He claimed another lamb, with sadder plaint.
Another! She who, gentle as a saint,
Ne'er gave me pain.
Aghast, I turned away!
There sat she, lovely as an angel's dream,
Her golden locks with sunlight all a-gleam,
Her holy eyes with heaven in their beam.
I knelt to pray:
"Is it thy will?
My Father, say, must this pet lamb be given?
Oh! thou hast many such, dear Lord, in Heaven."
And a soft voice said: "Nobly hast thou striven;
But—peace, be still."
Oh! how I wept,
And clasped her to my bosom with a wild
And yearning love—my lamb, my pleasant child.
Her, too, I gave. The little angel smiled,
And slept.
"Go! go!" I cried;
For once again that Shepherd laid his hand
Upon the noblest of our household band.
Like a pale spectre there he took his stand,
Close to his side.
And yet how wondrous sweet
The look with which he heard my passionate
cry:
"Touch not my lamb; for him Oh! let me die!"
"A little while," he said, with smile and sigh,
"Again to meet."
Hopeless, I fell:
And when I rose, the light had burned so low,
So faint, I could not see my darling go:
He had not bidden me farewell; but Oh!
I felt farewell.
More deeply, far
Than if my arms had compassed that slight
frame;
Though could I but have heard him call my
name,
"Dear mother!"—but in heaven 't will be the
same;
There burns my star!
He will not take
Another lamb, I thought, for only one
Of the dear fold is spared to be my sun,
My guide, my mourner when this life is done:
My heart would break.
Oh! with what thrill
I heard Him enter, but I did not know
(For it was dark) that He had robbed me so;
The idol of my soul—he could not go—
O heart! be still!
Came morning. Can I tell
How this poor frame its sorrowful tenant kept?
For waking tears were mine; I, sleeping, wept,
And days, months, years, that weary vigil kept.
Alas! "Farewell."
How often it is said!
I sit and think, and wonder, too, sometime,
How it will seem, when in that happy clime,
It never will ring out like funeral chime,
O'er the dead.
No tears! no tears!
Will there a day come that I shall not weep?
For I bedew my pillow in my sleep.
Yea, yes, thank God! no grief that clime shall
keep,
No weary years.
Ay! it is well,
Well with my lambs, and with their earthly
guide;
There, pleasant rivers wander they beside,
Or strike sweet harps upon its silver tide—
Ay! it is well!
Through the weary day
They come from glorious light to me;
I cannot feel their touch, their faces see,
Yet my soul whispers they come to me—
Heaven is not far away!
SELAH!