 | The Triangular Society |  |
205
THE SUNSHINE SONG.
A little child of three bright years
Undimmed by care, unstained by tears,—
From whose pure soul was not yet riven
The music of its native heaven,
Implored and pleaded, oft and long,
“O mother, sing the sunshine song!”
Undimmed by care, unstained by tears,—
From whose pure soul was not yet riven
The music of its native heaven,
Implored and pleaded, oft and long,
“O mother, sing the sunshine song!”
The mother sang full many an air,
The gay, the sad, the sweet, the rare,
But none could please the listening child,
Who shook her head, and sadly smiled,
As one who chides a grievous wrong,
“O mother, sing the sunshine song!”
The gay, the sad, the sweet, the rare,
But none could please the listening child,
Who shook her head, and sadly smiled,
As one who chides a grievous wrong,
“O mother, sing the sunshine song!”
“Alas!” the mother's voice replies,
While tears drop softly from her eyes,—
“I know it not,—I never heard
The sunshine song, my singing-bird!”
Yet still she pleaded, oft and long,
“O mother, sing the sunshine song!”
While tears drop softly from her eyes,—
“I know it not,—I never heard
The sunshine song, my singing-bird!”
Yet still she pleaded, oft and long,
“O mother, sing the sunshine song!”
Spring came; and ere its reign was past,
The child's sweet life was ebbing fast;
And through her long delirious hours
Her lispings were of bees and flowers,
Mingled and saddened, all night long,
With pleadings for the sunshine song.
The child's sweet life was ebbing fast;
And through her long delirious hours
Her lispings were of bees and flowers,
Mingled and saddened, all night long,
With pleadings for the sunshine song.
206
Hours passed; and on her mother's knee
The child lay dying; suddenly
She clasped her little faded hands,—
“O mother, hear!—those shining bands—
—The tune I 've waited for so long,—
Mother, they sing the sunshine song!”
The child lay dying; suddenly
She clasped her little faded hands,—
“O mother, hear!—those shining bands—
—The tune I 've waited for so long,—
Mother, they sing the sunshine song!”
The lifted hands fell feebly down,—
Death's white hand rested like a crown
Upon her brow;—in holy grace
Her face was an angel's face;
And she had joined the seraph-throng
Who sing, in heaven, the sunshine song.
Death's white hand rested like a crown
Upon her brow;—in holy grace
Her face was an angel's face;
And she had joined the seraph-throng
Who sing, in heaven, the sunshine song.
| The Triangular Society | |