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SONGS FOR THE

How still the baby’s lying,
I cannot hear its breath :

They told me he was dying ;
They tell me this is death.

My little song-book bringing,
I sat down by his bed

To soothe his pains by singing—
They hushed me: he was dead.

They say that he will, rising,
More beautiful appear :
The story is surprising ;
Explain it, mother dear.
“Dear daughter, you remember
The cold, dark thing you brought,
One morning in September—
A withered worm, you thought.

“T told you God had power
That withered shell to break,
And from it in an hour
A lovely form to take.
And now you see before you
The empty casement lies,
And, robed in splendor, o’er you
The new-born being flies.”

a aaeaaenniamaaninncenntr annem

DEATH AND THE RESURRECTION.