knelt and wept over its vacant cradle, stretched out his arms at midnight for its pliant form, and found only emptiness, listened in vain for its little quiet breathing, and felt his heart desolate. The scales in which a mother weighs her treasures, are not the same in which the man of the world weighs his silver and gold. Her grief is often most poignant, for the youngest and faintest blossom. Thus feeling anguish, where others scarcely see cause for regret, has she not an opportunity more permanently to benefit by the discipline of Heaven? Is she not moved to deeper sympathy with all who mourn? Is she not better fitted to become a comforter? more strongly incited to every deed of mercy? When she sees a little coffin pass, no matter whether the mother who mourns, be a stranger, or a mendicant, or burnt dark beneath an African sun, is she not to her, in the paying thrill of that moment, as a sister?
Yet is it not alone in the quickening of sympathy, or the excitement to benevolence, that such deep afflictions bring gain to the sufferer. Other seeds of goodness are sown in the softened soil. The thoughts and affections are drawn upward. The glorified spirit of the infant, is as a star to guide the mother to its own blissful clime. Is it not her wish to be where her babe is? And will she not strive to prepare herself for its pure society?
