 | Poetry for children |  |
65
Dialogue between Orphan Sisters.
YOUNGEST SISTER.Sister,—when I go to rest,
The last image in my breast,
Is of a hand that gently spread
The covering o'er my cradle-bed,
And of a bosom soft and kind
On which my infant head reclin'd.
And ever, when I wake,—my theme,
As of some dear and blissful dream,
Is of a tone prolong'd and clear,
Sweet and birdlike to my ear,
Of a fond kiss,—it was not thine,
And murmer of the Name Divine:
Sister,—you remember well,
Tell me of our parents,—tell.
ELDEST SISTER.
Alas of him,—our father-guide,
Few tints hath memory's scroll supplied;
A tender smile,—a glance, whose pain
Could well my wayward moods restrain,
Fair gifts that still unsullied shine,
In childhood's books some pencil'd line,—
And then, a burst of bitter wo,
Knell, coffin, and procession slow,
And this is all of him who sleeps
Where yonder drooping willow weeps,
Few tints hath memory's scroll supplied;
A tender smile,—a glance, whose pain
Could well my wayward moods restrain,
66
In childhood's books some pencil'd line,—
And then, a burst of bitter wo,
Knell, coffin, and procession slow,
And this is all of him who sleeps
Where yonder drooping willow weeps,
But of that blessed one who gave
Our father to the lonely grave,
So strong with every thought is wove,
The tireless teachings of her love,
With every fibre of the mind,
So close her prayer her smile entwin'd,
That my whole being's hidden store
Seems by her pencil written o'er;
And if within my heart there springs
Some chasten'd love of holy things,
She sow'd the seed with mild control
That patient florist of the soul.
Our father to the lonely grave,
So strong with every thought is wove,
The tireless teachings of her love,
With every fibre of the mind,
So close her prayer her smile entwin'd,
That my whole being's hidden store
Seems by her pencil written o'er;
And if within my heart there springs
Some chasten'd love of holy things,
She sow'd the seed with mild control
That patient florist of the soul.
Sweetest, let me dry thy tear,
Thou art like that mother dear,
And I fain would be to thee
What that mother was to me.
Thou art like that mother dear,
And I fain would be to thee
What that mother was to me.
| Poetry for children | |