 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
213
FAITH.
My little girl, the other day,
(Three years of age a month ago,)
Wounded her finger while at play,
And saw the crimson fluid flow.
With pleading optics, raining tears,
She sought my aid, in terror wild;
I smiling said, “Dismiss your fears,
And all shall soon be well, my child.”
Her little bosom ceased to swell,
While she replied with calmer brow,
“I know that you can make it well,
But how, papa?—I do n't see how.”
(Three years of age a month ago,)
Wounded her finger while at play,
And saw the crimson fluid flow.
With pleading optics, raining tears,
She sought my aid, in terror wild;
I smiling said, “Dismiss your fears,
And all shall soon be well, my child.”
Her little bosom ceased to swell,
While she replied with calmer brow,
“I know that you can make it well,
But how, papa?—I do n't see how.”
Our children oft instruct us thus;
For succor, or for recompense,
They look with confidence to us,
As we should look to Providence.
For each infantile doubt and fear,
And every little childish grief,
Is uttered to a parent's ear,
With full assurance of relief.
A grateful sense of favors past,
Incites them to petition now,
With faith in succor to the last,
Although they can 't imagine how.
For succor, or for recompense,
They look with confidence to us,
As we should look to Providence.
For each infantile doubt and fear,
And every little childish grief,
Is uttered to a parent's ear,
With full assurance of relief.
A grateful sense of favors past,
Incites them to petition now,
214
Although they can 't imagine how.
And shall I doubtingly repine,
When clouds of dark affliction lower?
A tenderer Father still is mine,
Of greater mercy, love, and power:
He clothes the lily, feeds the dove,
The meanest insect feels his care;
And shall not man confess his love,
Man, his own offspring, and his heir?
Yes, though he slay, I'll trust him still,
And still with resignation bow;
He may relieve, he can, he will—
Although I can not yet see how.
When clouds of dark affliction lower?
A tenderer Father still is mine,
Of greater mercy, love, and power:
He clothes the lily, feeds the dove,
The meanest insect feels his care;
And shall not man confess his love,
Man, his own offspring, and his heir?
Yes, though he slay, I'll trust him still,
And still with resignation bow;
He may relieve, he can, he will—
Although I can not yet see how.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |