 | The harp and plow |  |
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LINES ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE CLARA.
It was in the summer time,
And the leaves were in their prime
And their pride;
It was early in the morn,
And a robin sang forlorn
When she died.
And the leaves were in their prime
And their pride;
It was early in the morn,
And a robin sang forlorn
When she died.
You have seen a budding flower
In some sweet, domestic bower—
Fair to see;
You have seen a lily white,
Pure, and beauteous, and bright;
Such was she!
In some sweet, domestic bower—
Fair to see;
You have seen a lily white,
Pure, and beauteous, and bright;
Such was she!
You have seen that cherished flower
In some sad untimely hour
Leave its tree;
You have seen the lily lost
Even when you prized it most;
So was she!
In some sad untimely hour
Leave its tree;
You have seen the lily lost
Even when you prized it most;
So was she!
You can see, on looking back
O'er life's memorable track,
With a sigh,
Scenes so sweet they even seem
Like the fiction of a dream;
So can I!
O'er life's memorable track,
With a sigh,
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Like the fiction of a dream;
So can I!
As is written in the Word,
‘When the candle of the Lord’
O'er you shone;
You renew the past awhile,
As you ponder you would smile;
But you groan.
‘When the candle of the Lord’
O'er you shone;
You renew the past awhile,
As you ponder you would smile;
But you groan.
For, perhaps, a little child
In its innocence has smiled
On your knee;
Or has hailed you from the door,
When the toils of day were o'er,
With its glee.
In its innocence has smiled
On your knee;
Or has hailed you from the door,
When the toils of day were o'er,
With its glee.
Now in vain those little feet
You may watch to hear, and meet,
As you come
With a slow and sober tread,
For your thoughts are on the dead,
And their home.
You may watch to hear, and meet,
As you come
With a slow and sober tread,
For your thoughts are on the dead,
And their home.
And, perhaps, on looking back
O'er life's melancholy track,
With a sigh,
You can tell the sons of mirth
You are getting weaned from earth;
So can I!
O'er life's melancholy track,
With a sigh,
You can tell the sons of mirth
You are getting weaned from earth;
So can I!
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