"God loveth a cheerful giver." "WHAT shall I render Thee, Father Supreme, For thy rich gifts, and this the best of all?" Said a young mother, as she fondly watch'd Her sleeping babe. There was an answering voice, That night, in dreams. "Thou hast a tender flower Wrapt in thy breast, and fed with dews of love. Give me that flower. Such flowers there are in heaven." -- But there was silence. Yea, a hush so deep, Breathless and terror-stricken, that the lip Blanch'd in its trance. "Thou hast a little harp, How sweetly would it swell the angel's song. Lend me that harp." Then 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-strings rang a thrilling strain and broke, And that young mother lay upon the earth In childless agony. Again the voice That stirr'd her vision. "He, who asked of thee, Loveth a cheerful giver." So she rais'd Her gushing eye, and ere the tear-drop dried Upon its fringes, smiled. Doubt not that smile, Like Abraham's faith, was counted righteousness. |