h parental care,
My spirit and my eye
Seek it inquiringly,
Before the thought comes that--he is not there!

"When at the day's calm close
Before we seek repose,
I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,
Whate'er I may be saying,
I am, in spirit, praying
For our boy's spirit, though--he is not there!

"Not there? Where, then, is he?
The form I used to see
Was but the raiment that he used to wear.
The grave, that now doth press
Upon that cast-off dress,
Is but his wardrobe locked;--he is not there!

"He lives! In all the past
He lives; nor, to the last,
Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now,
And on his angel brow,
I see it written, 'Thou shalt see me there!'

"Yes, we all live to God!
Father, thy chastening rod
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That in the spirit-land,
Meeting at thy right hand,
'Twill he our heaven to find that--he is there!"

From this view of the educational principle involved in all our
bereavements, we may easily infer that God designs to benefit us by them.
There is an actual usefulness in all the bereavements of the Christian
home. They are but the discipline of a Father's hand and the ministration
of a Father's love. Though His face may wear a dark frown, or be hid
behind the tempest-cloud, and His rod may be laid heavily upon you, yet you
are not warranted to believe that no sweet is in the bitter cup you drink,
that no light shines behind the cloud, or that no good dwells in the
bursting storm around you. The present may indeed he dark; but the future
will be bright and laden with a Father's blessing. The smile will succeed
the frown; the balm will follow the rod. The good seed will be sown after
the deep furrows are made. "No chastening for the present seemeth joyous,
but grievous, yet it worketh out a far more exceeding and eternal weight of
glory to them that are exercised thereby." The memory that lingers around
the grave of our loved ones, is sad and tearful. The stricken heart heaves
with emotions too big for utterance, when we hear no more the sound of
their accustomed footsteps upon the threshold of our door. Oh, the cup of
bereavement is then bitter, its hour dark, and the pall of desolation hangs
heavily around our hearts and homes.

But this is only the dark side of bereavement. The eye which then weeps may
fail at the time to behold through its te