LUELLA SMART

DIED:
On the 11th inst., Emma Luella daughter of R.D. and N.B. Smart, aged 2 years
9 months and 13 days.
Little Emma was a child lovely in feature, graceful in form and one whose growth
was rapid, both physically and intellectually. So remarkably precocious was she,
as to excite the wonderment of all who knew her. The following beautiful verses
written on the death of Emma, will be read with pleasure.
Questionings, By M.L.
Why do the children leave us, O! our Father,
The little children cradled on our breasts?
Why should our doves fly upward in the morning
When the birdlings sleep within the nest?
Can it be true the music up in Heaven
Is sweeter when their voices join the hymn?
Is richer light to realms of glory given,
For that which, fading, left our homes so dim?
And can the angels, who all love receiving,
Rest so securely in the Shepherd's fold,
Need, as a mother needs, amid her grieving,
The little ones to kiss, and clasp and hold?
We cannot tell what light now gilds their faces;
We know our homes had sunshine when they smiled;
We know in lonely hearts are vacant places,
And voices crying, "give, give back the child."
In vain, in vain, we listen for the patter
Of little feet at mroning on the stair;
Or for the merry sound of childish laughter;
Or gentle tones saying the evening prayer.
In vain we wait for kisses falling purely
From lips that said their "good night" st our knees?
Oh? He who made the mother heart hath surely
No chiding in his own for thoughts like these.
Even this how can we know? His hand hath smitten?
In wrath or mercy?--only can he tell!
Perhaps the day may come when shall be written
Upon our souls this record--"it is well?"
Bearing our broken harp thro' all the night..
The quivering chords shall jar with pain till then,
Till his own hand shall lead us to the light,
And tune each broken string to one "Amen?"
*********
A Response, By Mrs. C.M.
"Even this how can we know? His hand hath smitten!"
In wrath or mercy?--only He can tell!
Perhaps the day may come when shall be written
Upon our should this record--"it is well."
--Questionings by M.L.
Question it not, oh friend! The Father smiteth
Never in wrath when our beloved ones die;
Hear the sweet message his own hand inditeth;
"Those whom I love I chasten, even I!"
O, not in wrath--the gracious, kind All Father!--
He calls the little children to his breast,
And with his arms of love doth gently gather
His best beloved earliest to their rest.
And we who still are left, all weak and broken,
To question if He careth for us still,
May hear this word His gracious lip hath spoken;
"Those whom I love I chasten, as I will."
"Those whom I love!" oh, could we read the lesson
From those serener heights where angels dwell,--
"Those whom I love I do rebuke and chasten"--
Should we still question wildly, "is it well?"
Nay, friends--deaer friends! ye whose sad teaers are flowing,
Above the little graves so scantily strown
With the young grass-blades for the first time growing
O'er the fresh mounds that mark your dear ones flown.
Doubt not this truth; In mercy He hath smitten,
To bring you nearer, nearer to His side;
For "God is love," and what His hand hath written,
Let not our weak faith gainsay nor deride.
Oh, pitiful and tender He is taking
The little ones that we may follow on;
And reach at length, all doubt, all fear forsaking
The blessed mansions whither they have gone.
Manitowoc Tribune Thursday, January 14, 1869 pg. 4