THE LOST BABE.

There was a bower that love had reared

And beautified with care;

One day a messenger appeared

And asked admission there.

He was not welcome to the bower,

For something in his face,

Where'er he went, had always power

To cloud the brightest place.

Love barred the door, and cried, “Forbear,

Thou art no bidden guest”;

Then gathered up her jewels rare

And hid them in her breast.

Still louder knocked he than before,

And still he was denied;

Then, laughing at the well-barred door,

He threw it open wide.

“I come from Paradise above,”

The messenger began:

“Oh, not in anger but in love

God worketh out his plan.

“Sent from the King's eternal throne

My mission to fulfill,

I ask one jewel of thine own,—

It is the Master's will:

“One birdling from the parent nest,

One lamb from out thy fold,

To nestle in the Saviour's breast

As did the babes of old.

“How safe! Her resting-place how sweet!

But thou wilt sadly miss

The busy hands, the dancing feet,

The prattle and the kiss.

“There comes an hour, so long foretold

That many deem it vain,

When in his arms thou shalt behold

That precious lamb again.

“When earth and sea at God's command

Their treasures shall restore

Then thou shalt clasp this little hand,

Nor dread a parting more.”

Love wept — her very bosom bled

For that lost little one;

But Faith supported her and said,

“The Master's will be done.”