‘ They all shall bloom in fields of light. 
Transplanted by my care. 
And saints, upon their garments white. 
These sacred blossoms wear/ 
And the mother gave, in tears and pain. 
The flowers she most did love ; 
She knew she should find them all again 
In the fields of light above. 
Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath. 
The Reaper came that day; 
’T was an angel visited the green earth. 
And took the flowers away. 
Longfellow. 
y HAT shall I render Thee, Father Supreme, 
For Thy rich gifts, and this the best of all!’ 
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 : ’t will 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 angel’s song ! 
Give Me that harp ! ’ There burst a shuddering sob, 
