A little child rests on a bed of pain,
With an aching head and a throbbing brain;
A feverish flush on the soft cheek lies,
And a wistful look in the sweet blue eyes,
As the sick child moans: "How the slow hours creep!
Will the Lord not send to His little one sleep?"

And the mother smoothed from the child's brow fair
The clustering locks of her golden hair,
And murmured: "My darling, we cannot tell;
But we know that the Father doth all things well;
And we know that never a creature in pain
Addressed a prayer to His mercy in vain.
Time has no line that His hand may not smooth;
Life has no grief that His love cannot soothe;
And the fevered brow shall have rest at last.
In the healing shade from the Death-Cross cast.
Look up, my precious one; why shouldst thou weep?
The Lord giveth aye to His loved ones sleep."

And the little one gazed with a glad surprise
In the loving depths of those patient eyes,
Then lifted her lips for one long embrace.
And turned with a smile on her weary face.

And the mother smiled as the early morn
Marked the deep peace on the childish form,
And cried aloud in her thankfulness deep:
"The dear Lord be praised, who hath given her sleep!"

Ay, mother — she sleeps, in that charmed repose,
That shall waken no more to earth's pains and woes.
For the Saviour hath gathered His lamb to His breast.
Where never life's storms shall her peace molest.
His dear love willed not that time should trace
One sorrowful line on that innocent face;

Others, less favoured, might suffer their share
Of the midnight toil and the noontide glare;
Others might labour, others might weep,
But "the Lord giveth aye to His loved ones sleep."

Only a woman, shrivelled and old,
The prey of the winds, and the prey of the cold!
⁠⁠Cheeks that are shrunken,
⁠⁠Eyes that are sunken.
⁠⁠Lips that were never o'erbold;
Only a woman, forsaken and poor,
Asking an alms at the bronze church-door.

Hark to the organ! roll upon roll
The waves of its music go over the soul!
⁠⁠Silks rustle past her
⁠⁠Thicker and faster;
⁠⁠The great bell ceases its toll.
Fain would she enter, but not for the poor
Swingeth wide open the bronze church-door.

Only a woman — waiting alone.
Icily cold on an ice-cold throne.
⁠⁠What do they care for her.
⁠⁠Mumbling a prayer for her,
⁠⁠Giving not bread but a stone.
Under gold laces their haughty hearts beat.
Mocking the woes of their kin in the street.

Only a woman! In the older days
Hope carolled to her happiest lays;
⁠⁠Somebody missed her,
⁠⁠Somebody kissed her,
⁠⁠Somebody crowned her with praise;
Somebody faced up the battles of life.
Strong for her sake who was mother or wife.

Somebody lies with a tress of her hair
Light on his heart where the death-shadows are;
⁠⁠Somebody waits for her.
⁠⁠Opening the gates for her,
⁠⁠Giving delight for despair.
Only a woman — nevermore poor —
Dead in the snow at the bronze church-door.