To my child in Heaven ; The violet : manuscript copy

To my child in Heaven ; The violet : manuscript copy

1 item ([2] pages) : 25.5 x 20 cm

"To My Child in Heaven" from Religious Herald and "The Violet” from Purley’s Spelling Book. Two poems about mourning the death of a child. Manuscript copy by an unknown hand.

[Page 1]

From the Religious Herald

To my Child in Heaven.
Where art thou my little one?
And what thy bless'd employ?
Wandering amidst the bowels of bliss,
And plucking flowers of joy?
Or, dost thou hover o'er this earth
To see thy Mother weep,
Then plume thy little sparkling wings
And visit her in her sleep?
But though thou'st left me here below
Thine absence still to mourn,
I would not call thee back again,
To bear what thou hast borne;
To see the rose forsake thy cheek,
The lustre grit thine eye,
And watch beside thy fever'd couch
In bitter agony.
But pain my faith would take her flight
"Beyond the starry sky",
And view thee in thy blessedness,
Amid cherub hosts on high.
When the Redeemer walked ^^onthe earth
He blest the infant race,
And said their angels ever dwelt
Before his Father's face.
Then thou art there from sorrow freed,
Where God his power displays;
The sigh that bore thy spirit here
Commenced thy song of praise.

Too fair for earth, like you bright star
Thou shinest in Heaven now,
Gem in the Glorious coronet
That decks the Saviours brow.
London Family Magazine

I will a little pilgrim be,
Revolved alone to follow thee,
Thou Lamb of God, who now art gone
up to thy ever lasting throne
I will my heart to Thee resign,
Thine only be, O be Thou mine.
The world I leave and foolish play
To happiness to find the way
My lips shall be employed to bless
The Lord, who is my righteousness;
My pleasure only to please
His mind, and him my Saviour ^^{I know}
So long I'll pray below to live
Till I my pardon woul'd recieve,
I now, when Jesus calls, shall die
Or rather live eternally.
Nursery Magazine

[Page 2]

Peter Purley's Spelling Book

The Violet

Violet, violet, sparkling with dew,
Down in the meadow:land, wild, where you grew,
How did you come by the beautiful blue
In which your soft petals unfold?
And how do you hold up your tender, young head,
When the winds rush along o'er your queer, grassy bed,
And the great sable clouds, hanging over you, shed
Their waters, so heavy and cold?
Violet, none ever nursed you an hour,
Or found you a place in the garden or bower;
They cannot produce such a beautiful flower
As here I have found at my feet.
Come, pretty violet, answer, and tell
How you have managed to flourish so well,
And live so contented when lowly you dwell,
And we, thus, by accident, meet.
"The same steady hand," the fair violet said,
"That holds up the firmament, holds up my head;
The same that with azure the skies over spread,
Has painted the violet blue.
And he who has sprinkled the stars o'er the night,
Bestows a pure ray of his clear morning light,
To beam in my coronet, sparkling and bright,
That's formed of a drop of his dew.
So I never fear, when the clouds come and frown,
And threaten to pour their great cataracts down;
For, born in the lowland, and far from the town,
I love, and I trust but to One.
He soon weaves a mantle, around me to throw,
Of the long, silken grass, bending gently and low,
Which keeps me secure til the winds cease to blow,
And the clouds scud before the warm sun."

Ink on paper