Poor man, who name of Father dost not know,
Nor e'er hast felt that bond of sweetest might,
Which binds thee to thy child; on whose glad sight
That fairest image on the earth below,――
In beauty like heav'n's various-tinted bow,――
Her Mother's picture, lovely daughter bright
Ne'er shone;――thou hast not seen joy's earthly height!――
All this I've seen, and lost to my huge woe!
And yet I do not need thy pity, friend;
For though the flow'r of seventeen summers' bloom
Was smitten, still it blossoms without end
In garden, where ne'er falls a blighting doom.
A ransom'd sinner did my Daughter die,
In Christian hope, with glory in her eye!