Tippecanoe City Herald

September 8, 1870

MILES, ROLLAND WADE - On Thursday, September 1st, 1870, Rolland Wade, infant son of A. W. and M. C. Miles, aged one year, one month, and eight days.

As vernal flowers that seen the morn
But wither in the rising day,
Thus lovely was this infant's dawn,
Thus swiftly fled his life away. M.

Tippecanoe City Herald
September 15, 1870

MILES, WADIE - Dedicated to Wadie Miles -

Oh! not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The angel came that day;
"The angel visited the green earth,
And took the flower away."

The moral power of an infant is seen when the heart muses on the dead--when the soul feels the truth of "gone, but not lost". When the sunbeam has vanished from the home, then the heart feels its preciousness--what brightness it did shed around the home, and how golden were the swift wings of the passing hours! It little knew what an interest all hearts had for it, how its sleeping and waking hours were watched, and when it faded, what a deep tide of emotion swept over the soul. It departed, and linked the heart to heaven as never before it was united with the spiritual. Heaven was made nearer, because a dear treasure was there. The moral power of that infant is continually felt, for it has been written with deep meaning that "They only can be said to possess a child forever who have lost one in infancy". Beautiful is that power which thus unties us with the infant dead and keeps our hearts ever open to the greatest influences that ever flow in to bless and elevate.

Wait! my little one, wait!
   When you get to that beautiful land,
Tarry a little, my darling,
   Ere you join the heavenly band.
Stand close to the shining gates of pearl
   Look out on the narrow way,
For I want the first glance of my heaven-born right
   On my little one to stay.

Wait! my little one, wait!.
   When you reach the courts above;
Look down, with the light of thy beautiful eyes
   On those that you used to love.
Whisper sweet dreams in our earthly ears
   When we lie down to sleep,
Paint bright pictures before our eyes,
   When we awaken to weep.

Wait! my little one, wait!
   When you reach the celestial strand,
For the mother may be toiling up,
   To the heights of the better land.
For the years that fall like molten lead,
   On hearts this side of the sea,
Will pass like the light of a beautiful dream
   My little Wadie o'er thee.

Sept. 8th, 1870 "Lillie"

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