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The Widow.

By Grace Aguilar.

“Let thy widows trust in Me.”

I saw her gaze upon the child
That played around her knee,
And on the sleeping babe that smil’d,
In its young dreams of glee;—

The mother’s glance was fixed on them,
Her only treasure now,
Buds twining round a wither’d stem,
A bent and fading bough!

Her cheek hath lost the beauteous rose,
Which erst had glisten’d there,
And if at times its shadow glows,
‘Tis only called—by Prayer­—

The eye that laugh’d in sportiveness,
The lip, bright smiles that wreathed,
The clust’ring ringlets’ jetty tress,—
The voice that music breathed—

­All—all are past;—yet holier light
Gleams on that sadden’d brow,
A star hath pierced thro’ sorrow’s night,
That never shone as now.

Her life had been a troubled sea
Of sorrow and of care,
E’en in those years, when youth and glee
Life’s joyance ought to share.

But care and sorrow past away,
When love twin’d roseate flowers,
To shed a fragrance o’er her way,
And promise happier hours.

Awhile rich blessings o’er her head
All lavishly were thrown—
Too bright—too brief—they smil’d and fled,
And earth again was lone!

The brighter Life hath learned before,
The darker shade he flings,
When Love may shed his light no more
On Home’s familiar things.

Alone! alone! oh how that word,
Falls on the quiv’ring heart,
Whose depths no more by love are stirr’d,
Whose tears unheeded start.

Alone! alone! with none to bless,
And none to bless again;
Oh who shall soothe such loneliness,
And still its voiceless pain?

None, is there none? look on that brow
And read thine answer there!
Pale—pale—but oh! how placid now
The spirit’s calm to share.

She droops not, sinks not, for above
Her heart hath found its rest—
She clasps her Father’s role of love,
And clings unto his breast.

Her youngest born hath woke to smile,
And lisp her cherish’d name;
And Ellen leaves her play awhile,
The same fond kiss to claim.

Her mother’s tears had oft-times dew’d
Her soft and rosy cheek—
And in her lightest, merriest mood,
Her bright eyes feeling speak.

As if she felt a silent wo,
Breath’d in her mother’s face,
Some holy thought—she might not know,
Spoke in her fond embrace.

Oh pause not—faint not on thy way,
Mother! thou art not lone,
Thy soul hath One on whom to stay,
He claims thee as His own!

He who hath bade the widow trust
In Him, when life is dim,
And leave—when dust returns to dust—
The fatherless to Him—

Art thou not His? thy fatherless
His own especial care?
Oh, droop not ‘neath thy loneliness,
He will thy burden bear!

He hath but call’d thy lov’d above,
To bind to Him thy heart,
To guide thee where the souls that love
Shall never, never part!