From out a bundle in the old red chest I found some baby-clothes that called the tears. They brought so many precious memories forth, Sweet, precious memories of by-gone years. A little shirt so tiny that the sleeves Would always seem to, laughing, whisper low, “We were the first you made: we did not grow In length nor breadth; and when the baby grew We were laid by to serve a baby new.” That little shirt! The tiny hem-stitched front Covered the little heart whose fluttering beat Was like a captive bird; nor did I know The years would come, years sorrowful and sweet, When I, in pain, my weary head would rest Against that heart, and on those arms so blest. O little sleeves! the arms you circled then, I kissed and dressed; they dress me now. Again The old-time tenderness comes o’er me with a thrill She is the stronger; yet my darling still. O little shirt, too worn to give away; Too dear to waste; still with my keepsakes stay, With the wee stockings and the short pink dress, Hid in the bundle, still my heart to bless, By bringing back the rainbow baby days When God first taught me mother-thought and praise. These little clothes bring back the time to me When, full of wonder and of hope, I thought The coming treasure, that pure gift of God For which, in prayer, my earnest heart had sought, Would cheer me with a joy that only shines In mother-hearts, where Love’s most costly mines Are thrown wide open to be gathered free For baby lips and baby eyes to see. Yes, I remember all, dear little clothes, You’ve roused a thousand memories from repose; And like the sweetest music of the past, You breathe a song that must forever last. A song re-echoed ever here below; A song to follow me when I shall go To that glad Home where parting is no more, And greet my children on the fadeless shore. LULLABY OF THE ROSES Over the rustic window sill, Peering down on the little crib; Over the snowy pillow-frill, Over the snowy little bib. Scattering rose leaves fresh and sweet; Pure as the baby’s lips and feet. Baby, dream a beautiful dream, Watched by the summer roses bright, That wake to see the starry gleam From the wonderful crown of night, And wait to peer on the baby’s crib, And strew soft leaves on baby’s bib. We wear the styles the roses wore In the summers beyond the Flood, And dyes the same we had before, And our patterns came down from God. We are the same glad roses still, Smiling over the window sill. We ne’er forget the ways we learned There in the sinless Eden Home; Whether we’re loved, or torn and spurned, We smile as Eve’s own garden bloom. Scattering rose-leaves fresh and sweet, Soft as baby’s lips and feet.