Good night; go, say the prayer she taught,
Beside your little bed.
The lips that used to bless you there,
Are silent with the dead.
A father's hand your course may guide
Amid the storms of life,
His care protect those shrinking plants
That dread the storm of strife;
But who, upon your infant hearts,
Shall like that mother write?
Who touch the strings that rule the soul?
Dear smitten flock, good night!"

Who can forget a mother, or lose those impressions which her death made
upon our deeply stricken hearts? None,--not even the wretch who has
brutalized all the feelings of natural affection. The memory of a mother's
death is as fadeless as the deep impress of a mother's love upon our
hearts. As often as we resort to her grave we must leave behind the
tribute of our tears. Who can read the following beautiful lines of Cowper,
and--if the memory of a sainted mother is awakened by them,--not weep?

"My mother! When I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun!
Perhaps thou gay'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss--
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers--yes!
I heard the bell toll on the burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone.
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!"

The death of children is a great bereavement of home. Behold that little
blossom withered in its mother's arms! See those tears which flood her eyes
as she bends in her deep grief over the grave of her cherished babe! Go,
fond parents, to that little mound, and weep! It is well to do so; it is
well for thee in the twilight hour to steal around that hallowed spot, and
pay the tribute of memory to your little one, in flooding tears. There
beneath those blooming flowers which the hand of affection planted, it
sweetly sleeps. It bids adieu to all the scenes and cares of life. It just
began to taste the cup of life, and turned from its ingredients of
commingled joy and sorrow, to a more peaceful clime. Cold now is that
little heart which once beat its warm pulses so near to thine; hushed is
now that sweet voic