44
I often of your sister think,
That early smitten flower,
Who gave her soul so cheerfully
To God, in life's last hour:
Oh, may we meet her when we die,
In yonder, bright, unclouded sky.
Dialogue in the fields, between a Mother and little Child.
Come forth,—come forth, 'tis the time of joy,
Bright summer is out, in the vales, my boy,
Through its lillied bed, see the clear brook glide,
And the white lamb sport by its mother's side,
See the butterfly spread out a golden wing,
And the bees to the honey blossoms sing,
And the grasshopper leap 'mid the new-mown hay.
So we, my child, will be happy as they.
Sweet words
Speak the birds
From the tree;
