 | From Sunset Ridge |  |
III
Our Baby holds her little court
Where pretty things do make her sport;
The buds that open not, nor fall,
Are stationed in her silent hall;
The gracious Dove, divinest held
By all the reverend souls of eld,
To her a sweet companion grows,
Whitening above the whitest rose.
Where pretty things do make her sport;
The buds that open not, nor fall,
Are stationed in her silent hall;
The gracious Dove, divinest held
By all the reverend souls of eld,
To her a sweet companion grows,
Whitening above the whitest rose.
The lily crown shall never fade
That on her lowly mound is laid;
For not in vain she saw the light,
Nor, with poor errand, passed from sight,
But, in her one short year of home,
The little Babe did overcome.
That on her lowly mound is laid;
For not in vain she saw the light,
Nor, with poor errand, passed from sight,
But, in her one short year of home,
The little Babe did overcome.
| From Sunset Ridge | |