_Maulmain_, January, 1848.

The following touching lines show that she could skilfully employ her ready pen in consoling those on whom had fallen the stroke of bereavement:

LINES

_Addressed to a missionary friend in Burmah on the death of her little boy, thirteen months old, in which allusion is made to the previous death of his little brother._

A mound is in the graveyard, A short and narrow bed; No gra.s.s is growing on it, And no marble at its head: Ye may sit and weep beside it Ye may kneel and kiss the sod, But ye'll find no balm for sorrow, In the cold and silent clod.

There is anguish in the household, It is desolate and lone, For a fondly cherished nursling From the parent nest has flown; A little form is missing; A heart has ceased to beat; And the chain of love lies shattered At the desolator's feet.

Remove the empty cradle, His clothing put away, And all his little playthings With your choicest treasures lay; Strive not to check the tear drops, That fall like summer rain, For the sun of hope shines thro' them-- Ye shall see his face again.

Oh! think where rests your darling,-- Not in his cradle bed; Not in the distant graveyard, With the still and mouldering dead But in a heavenly mansion, Upon the Saviour's breast, With his brother's arms about him, He takes his sainted rest.

He has put on robes of glory For the little robes ye wrought; And he fingers golden harp strings For the toys his sisters brought.

Oh, weep! but with rejoicing; A heart gem have ye given, And behold its glorious setting In the diadem of Heaven.

The following letter and beautiful poems need little explanation. The letter is addressed to some of Dr. Judson's children, who resided in Worcester, Ma.s.sachusetts, having been sent home from India to be educated in America. His health having failed, Dr. J. had sailed for the Isle of Bourbon for its restoration, and it was during his absence that these effusions were penned.

Maulmain, April 11, 1850.

My very dear Children,

I have painful news to tell you--news that I am sure will make your hearts ache; but I hope our heavenly Father will help you to bear it. Your dear papa is very, very ill indeed; so much so that the best judges fear that he will never be any better. He began to fail about five months ago, and has declined so gradually that we were not fully aware of his danger until lately; but within a few weeks those who love him have become very much alarmed.

In January we went down to Mergui by the steamer, and when we returned, thought he was a little better, but he soon failed again.

We spent a month at Amherst, but he received little if any benefit.

Next, the doctors p.r.o.nounced our house (the one you used to live in) unhealthy, and we moved to another. But all was of no use. Your dear papa continued to fail, till suddenly, one evening, his muscular strength gave way and he was prostrated on the bed, unable to help himself. This occurred about two weeks ago. The doctor now became alarmed, and said the only hope for him was in a long voyage. It was very hard to think of such a thing in his reduced state, particularly as I could not go with him; but after we had wept and prayed over it one day and night, we concluded that it was our duty to use the only means which G.o.d had left us, however painful.

We immediately engaged his pa.s.sage on board a French barque, bound for the Isle of Bourbon; but before it sailed he had become so very low that no one thought it right for him to go alone. They therefore called a meeting of the mission and appointed Mr. Ranney.

It was a great relief to me, for he is a very kind man, and loves your dear papa very much; and he will do everything that can be done for his comfort. The officers of the vessel too, seemed greatly interested for him, as did every one else. He was carried on board a week ago yesterday, in a litter, and placed on a nice easy cot made purposely for him. I stayed with him all day, and at dark came home to stay with the children.

The next day found that the vessel had only dropped down a little distance, and so I took a boat and followed. I expected this would certainly be the last day with him, but it was not. On Friday I went again, and though he did not appear as well as on the previous days, I was forced to take, as I then supposed, a final leave of him. But when morning came, I felt as though I could not live through the day without knowing how he was. So I took a boat again, and reached the vessel about 2 o'clock P.M. He could only speak in whispers, but seemed very glad that I came. The natives I had sent to fan him till he should get out of the river, came to me and begged to have him taken on sh.o.r.e again: and so small was my hope of his recovery, that my heart pleaded on their side, though I still thought it a duty to do as the doctor had ordered. I came away at dark, and though his lips moved to say some word of farewell, they made no sound.

I hope that you, my dear boys, will never have cause to know what a heavy heart I bore back to my desolate home that night. The vessel got out to sea about 4 o'clock on Monday, and last night the natives returned, bringing a letter from Mr. Ranney. Your precious papa has revived again--spoke aloud--took a little tea and toast--said there was something animating in the touch of the sea breeze, and directed Mr. Ranney to write to me that he had a strong belief it was the will of G.o.d to restore him again to health. I feel somewhat encouraged, but dare not hope too much.

And now, my dear boys, it will be three, perhaps four long months before we can hear from our beloved one again, and we shall all be very anxious. All we can do is to commit him to the care of our heavenly Father, and, if we never see him again in this world, pray that we may be prepared to meet him in heaven

Your most affectionate mother,

Emily C. Judson

PRAYER FOR DEAR PAPA.

Poor and needy little children, Saviour, G.o.d, we come to Thee, For our hearts are full of sorrow, And no other hope have we.

Out, upon the restless ocean, There is one we dearly love,-- Fold him in thine arms of pity, Spread thy guardian wings above.

When the winds are howling round him, When the angry waves are high, When black, heavy, midnight shadows, On his trackless pathway lie, Guide and guard him, blessed Saviour, Bid the hurrying tempests stay; Plant thy foot upon the waters.

Send thy smile to light his way.

When he lies, all pale, and suffering, Stretched upon his narrow bed, With no loving face bent o'er him, No soft hand about his head, O, let kind and pitying angels, Their bright forms around him bow; Let them kiss his heavy eyelids, Let them fan his fevered brow.

Poor and needy little children, Still we raise our cry to Thee We have nestled in his bosom, We have sported on his knee; Dearly, dearly do we love him, --We, who on his breast have lain-- Pity now our desolation!

Bring him back to us again!

If it please thee, Heavenly Father, We would see him come once more, With his olden step of vigor, With the love-lit smile he wore; But if we must tread Life's valley, Orphaned, guideless, and alone, Let us lose not, 'mid the shadows, His dear footprints to thy Throne.

_Maulmain_, April, 1850.

SWEET MOTHER.

The wild, south-west Monsoon has risen, With broad, gray wings of gloom, While here, from out my dreary prison, I look, as from a tomb--Alas!

My heart another tomb.

Upon the low-thatched roof, the rain, With ceaseless patter, falls; My choicest treasures bear its stain-- Mould gathers on the walls--Would Heaven 'Twere only on the walls!

Sweet Mother! I am here alone, In sorrow and in pain; The sunshine from my heart has flown, It feels the driving rain--Ah, me!

The chill, and mould, and rain.

Four laggard months have wheeled their round Since love upon it smiled; And everything of earth has frowned On thy poor, stricken child--sweet friend, Thy weary, suffering child.

I'd watched my loved one, night and day.

Scarce breathing when he slept; And as my hopes were swept away, I'd on his bosom wept--O G.o.d!

How had I prayed and wept!

They bore him from me to the ship, As bearers bear the dead; I kissed his speechless, quivering lip, And left him on his bed--Alas!

It seemed a coffin-bed!

When from my gentle sister's tomb, In all our grief, we came, Rememberest thou her vacant room!

Well, his was just the same, that day.

The very, very same.

Then, mother, little Charley came-- Our beautiful fair boy, With my own father's cherished name-- But oh, he brought no joy!--My child Brought mourning, and no joy.

His little grave I cannot see, Though weary months have sped Since pitying lips bent over me, And whispered, "He is dead!"--Alas 'Tis dreadful to be dead!

I do not mean for one like me, --So weary, worn, and weak,-- Death's shadowy paleness seems to be Even now, upon my cheek--his seal On form, and brow and cheek.

But for a bright-winged bird like him, To hush his joyous song, And, prisoned in a coffin dim, Join Death's pale, phantom throng--_My boy_ To join that grisly throng!

Oh, Mother, I can scarcely bear To think of this to-day!

It was so exquisitely fair, --That little form of clay--my heart Still lingers by his clay.

And when for one loved far, far more, Come thickly gathering tears; My star of faith is clouded o'er, I sink beneath my fears--sweet friend, My heavy weight of fears.