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Poem
May 2, 1855
Spirit Of The Age
Raleigh, Wake County, North Carolina
What is this article about?
An elegy mourning the death of a young child named Willie, offering religious comfort to the grieving mother by depicting the child's ascent to heaven and eternal purity under God's care.
Clipping
OCR Quality
98%
Excellent
Full Text
FOR THE SPIRIT OF THE AGE.
"Gone, but not Lost."
Another angel harp tuned to Thy praise,
Holy Father! Thou art gathering Thy little band of cherub choirs; and where is the hearthstone that hath no voice, mingling in its mighty swell Sweet little Willie! to-day, I read too that thou too wert gone to join that shining infant host. Gone; from a mother's bosom, a father's arms, to rest with Him who said, "Suffer little children to come unto me." "Blessed thought to cheer thy mother's heart! Thou art sheltered within this bosom, and greater than her strong love is the tender Parent's who called thee, thus early to Himself. The Good Shepherd is careful of His precious lambs, and gathers them early into His fold, before earth's storms have rent and stained their spotless robes. Didst thou tremble, little lambkin, as the shadows of the "dark valley" closed around thee? or did His rod and His staff guide and comfort thee to the blest eternal home? and is He now leading thee beside still waters in green pastures?
Comest thou in the deep dark night time to watch around thy mother's pillow? And as she dreams sweet dreams, and imagines her darling beside her in his little crib, are they thy cherub lips that print a kiss upon her cheek: thy spirit voice that echoes thro' the silent room and wakes her from her restless grief-worn slumber? wakes her to stretch forth her hand in the thick darkness for thy little couch, and then sink upon her pillow with fainting heart as the rushing memory comes, that thou art sleeping in the church-yard. Sleeping the sleep that wakes not—the cold earth pressing thy little heart—thy tiny form mouldering in the silent grave. And she sees thee tossing in fever delirium, with parched lips and crimson cheeks—hears thy sweet-bud voice calling in piteous tones for "mama." Then thou art wrestling with the Great Reaper—she leans over the coffin's edge, and there is thy little waxen figure, robed for the deep sleep—thy dainty limbs straight and chill—thy laughing eye closed and lightless—thy prattling voice hushed forever. She stands by the open grave as they lower thy little coffin to its last home—she hears the earth rumbling on the closed lid—she watches, as they heap the cold, cold earth above thee—gazes upon the tiny mound and with a bleeding heart turns to her desolate hearth. Oh! who can tell the weight of the burden laid upon her—who can know her heart's pangs as she gathers his little treasures and stores them away, where curious nor careless eyes shall see them? Who can read her spirit's loneliness as passing through the quiet rooms, she misses everywhere the little nursling who made her heart's gladness?
Woman, in hours like these, to whom canst thou go but to Him who has promised that His "grace shall be sufficient?" What comfort have those who teach that these angel spirits are lost? Lost! Nay, they are but living! Living in the bright celestial realms of unfading glory—living, where earth cannot reach them, where earth-stains cannot dim their spotless purity—living, where clouds do not gather, where storms never beat—living, where all is warmth, and light, and love! Safely housed in Heaven! Sorrowing mother! thou walkest this earth an honored woman! Angels look from their "bowers of bliss," and bless thee, as thy trembling footsteps echo through these aisles of darkness. "Raise thou thine eye above;" thy treasure rests not here. Too pure for earth!
"Gone, but not Lost."
Another angel harp tuned to Thy praise,
Holy Father! Thou art gathering Thy little band of cherub choirs; and where is the hearthstone that hath no voice, mingling in its mighty swell Sweet little Willie! to-day, I read too that thou too wert gone to join that shining infant host. Gone; from a mother's bosom, a father's arms, to rest with Him who said, "Suffer little children to come unto me." "Blessed thought to cheer thy mother's heart! Thou art sheltered within this bosom, and greater than her strong love is the tender Parent's who called thee, thus early to Himself. The Good Shepherd is careful of His precious lambs, and gathers them early into His fold, before earth's storms have rent and stained their spotless robes. Didst thou tremble, little lambkin, as the shadows of the "dark valley" closed around thee? or did His rod and His staff guide and comfort thee to the blest eternal home? and is He now leading thee beside still waters in green pastures?
Comest thou in the deep dark night time to watch around thy mother's pillow? And as she dreams sweet dreams, and imagines her darling beside her in his little crib, are they thy cherub lips that print a kiss upon her cheek: thy spirit voice that echoes thro' the silent room and wakes her from her restless grief-worn slumber? wakes her to stretch forth her hand in the thick darkness for thy little couch, and then sink upon her pillow with fainting heart as the rushing memory comes, that thou art sleeping in the church-yard. Sleeping the sleep that wakes not—the cold earth pressing thy little heart—thy tiny form mouldering in the silent grave. And she sees thee tossing in fever delirium, with parched lips and crimson cheeks—hears thy sweet-bud voice calling in piteous tones for "mama." Then thou art wrestling with the Great Reaper—she leans over the coffin's edge, and there is thy little waxen figure, robed for the deep sleep—thy dainty limbs straight and chill—thy laughing eye closed and lightless—thy prattling voice hushed forever. She stands by the open grave as they lower thy little coffin to its last home—she hears the earth rumbling on the closed lid—she watches, as they heap the cold, cold earth above thee—gazes upon the tiny mound and with a bleeding heart turns to her desolate hearth. Oh! who can tell the weight of the burden laid upon her—who can know her heart's pangs as she gathers his little treasures and stores them away, where curious nor careless eyes shall see them? Who can read her spirit's loneliness as passing through the quiet rooms, she misses everywhere the little nursling who made her heart's gladness?
Woman, in hours like these, to whom canst thou go but to Him who has promised that His "grace shall be sufficient?" What comfort have those who teach that these angel spirits are lost? Lost! Nay, they are but living! Living in the bright celestial realms of unfading glory—living, where earth cannot reach them, where earth-stains cannot dim their spotless purity—living, where clouds do not gather, where storms never beat—living, where all is warmth, and light, and love! Safely housed in Heaven! Sorrowing mother! thou walkest this earth an honored woman! Angels look from their "bowers of bliss," and bless thee, as thy trembling footsteps echo through these aisles of darkness. "Raise thou thine eye above;" thy treasure rests not here. Too pure for earth!
What sub-type of article is it?
Elegy
What themes does it cover?
Death Mourning
Religious Faith
What keywords are associated?
Child Death
Mother Grief
Heavenly Comfort
Infant Loss
Spiritual Consolation
Poem Details
Title
Gone, But Not Lost.
Subject
On The Death Of Little Willie
Key Lines
Another Angel Harp Tuned To Thy Praise, Holy Father! Thou Art Gathering Thy Little Band Of Cherub Choirs;
Gone; From A Mother's Bosom, A Father's Arms, To Rest With Him Who Said, "Suffer Little Children To Come Unto Me."
The Good Shepherd Is Careful Of His Precious Lambs, And Gathers Them Early Into His Fold, Before Earth's Storms Have Rent And Stained Their Spotless Robes.
Living In The Bright Celestial Realms Of Unfading Glory—Living, Where Earth Cannot Reach Them, Where Earth Stains Cannot Dim Their Spotless Purity—Living, Where Clouds Do Not Gather, Where Storms Never Beat—Living, Where All Is Warmth, And Light, And Love!
Too Pure For Earth!