48
poems.
"IS IT WELL WITH THE CHILD?"
O! 't is a charmed sleep!
Come ye upon the holy ground with fear,
And with low breath and silent lip draw near:
Break not that rest so deep.
No earthly touch hath set its signet there,
Or wrought a work so beautiful and fair.
Come ye upon the holy ground with fear,
And with low breath and silent lip draw near:
Break not that rest so deep.
No earthly touch hath set its signet there,
Or wrought a work so beautiful and fair.
Look ye on that pale brow,
That eyelid, closed as in its infant rest,
When hushed to slumber on its mother's breast;
See the calm beauty now,
Which on that chiseled lip the eye may view,—
The cheek which wears the lily's sinless hue.
That eyelid, closed as in its infant rest,
When hushed to slumber on its mother's breast;
See the calm beauty now,
Which on that chiseled lip the eye may view,—
The cheek which wears the lily's sinless hue.
That form, O! it might well
Be the pure temple of a soul divine,
And hold, for stainless gifts, a spirit-shrine,
Whence notes of love might swell,
Like incense sweet, where guilt is all unknown,
And grateful rise to the Eternal's throne.
Be the pure temple of a soul divine,
And hold, for stainless gifts, a spirit-shrine,
Whence notes of love might swell,
Like incense sweet, where guilt is all unknown,
And grateful rise to the Eternal's throne.
It cannot, may not be—
The spirit even from that pure shrine ascends,
And with the angelic choir its incense blends.
Eternal One, to Thee
Can more accepted notes than theirs be given,
Whom he, Thy Son, declared to be of heaven?
The spirit even from that pure shrine ascends,
And with the angelic choir its incense blends.
Eternal One, to Thee
Can more accepted notes than theirs be given,
Whom he, Thy Son, declared to be of heaven?
