I know a darling little girl,
With silky, chestnut hair,
Which falls in many a dancing curl,
Around her shoulders fair.
Her eyes are very dark and soft,
And round their curtained bed,
I've seen the fairy smiles full oft
Their radiant beauty shed.
Her very tears are like the rain
Which falls in summer's hour;
Quick turned to glittering gems again,
As sun succeeds to shower.
This witching child is very small;
Her feeble, tiny hands,
Can scarcely tend the mammoth doll,
Which so much care demands.
Then, though her voice is very sweet,
She does but little more
Than simple childish songs repeat,
And prattle baby lore.
She cannot skip, for ah! she's lame;
One soft, white foot denies
Its aid, her body to sustain,
And weak and powerless lies.
Yet, strange to say, a crown she wears,
Which claims our homage mute;
And in her hand a sceptre bears,
Whose sway we ne'er dispute.
From whence doth come the wondrous power
She never fails to wield--
Making strong hearts and wills, each hour,
To _her_ light wishes yield?
If but a touch of grief appear
To veil that bright, pure face;
If sickness cast its shadows there,
Or pain its dark lines trace;
How anxious every means we take,
The ill to drive away!
And cheerfully, for her dear sake,
Would watch both night and day.
And when the light of coming health
Brightens that clear, dark eye,
What joy is ours! priceless wealth,
Earth's gold can never buy.
She makes us cast aside our book,
Though filled with learning rare;
To work is vain, when fun's arch look
Those beaming features wear.
Whence is this spell? I can but think
That, in sweet childhood's hour,
E'er yet the soul has learned to drink
From knowledge' fount of power;
Or felt what virtue is, or known
Life's sins, not yet begun;
Or seen how thick life's path is strown
With dangers it must shun;
A spirit pure doth come, to dwell
In these fresh-bursting minds,
Who weaves round them the powerful spell
Our hearts so firmly binds;
Our holier thoughts through them to wake;
Our earth-dimmed vision clear;
And through _their_ purity, to make
_All_ holy things more dear.
If so, where speeds that spirit, when
The soul has gathered strength--
The child, become with busy men,
A busy man at length?
Where has _our_ childhood's spirit gone?
How have _we_ lost the charm,
Thus thrown around life's early morn,
Keeping us safe from harm?
Ay! whither speeds it? Rather say
Is it not always by,
Though, through the dust of life's noonday,
We may not see it nigh;
Nor when dark clouds of sin would veil
_All_ glory from our sight;
And make both heart and hope to fail,
And brightness turn to night?
But when, midst virtue's clearer air,
The eye no hindrance knows,
How radiant stands the angel there!
What holy gifts bestows!
My darling niece, whose form of grace
Has made these thoughts arise,
I'm sure this angel oft I trace
In those clear depths--thine eyes.
And bursting forth from my full heart,
My prayers to heaven ascend,
That earth's dark changes ne'er may part
Thee and thy angel friend.
That purity may always be
The medium, clear and bright,
Through which may ever shine on thee
Heaven's own unclouded light.