284 THE BEREAVED FATHER.
For I know, when heaven hath wounded and prob'd the
bleeding breast, Its richest, healing balm is, in making others blest.
The poor man he doth thank me, and the orphan's grate- ful prayer
Breathes sweetly o'er my lonely soul, and soothes away its care,
In the sick peasant's cabin the gift he needs I lay,
And, ere he seeks the giver, I vanish far away.
I have a sacred joy, close lock'd from mortal eye
My lov'd ones come to visit me, when lost in dreams
I lie, They speak such words to charm me as only angels
say, And the beauty of their robes of light beams round me
through the day.
God is their keeper, and their friend, their bliss no tongue
can tell, And more I love His holy name that in His home they
dwell, O may He grant me grace divine, while on these shores of
ti m e, To learn the dialect they speak in yon celestial clime.
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