 | Sacra Poesis |  |
112
THE INDIAN CHILD.
Cradled by grief, and sorrow's sable wing,In joyless gloom pass'd childhood's early spring,
And still as buddeth fair thy youthful mind,
None bids thee seek, none guides thee, truth to find:
Poor child, that never rais'd the suppliant's pray'r,
Nor look'd on high and saw a Father there,
Untutor'd by religion's gentle sway
To love, believe, be happy, and obey.
| Sacra Poesis | |