Our Gift · Chapter 13My Niece
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I know a darling little girl, With silky, chestnut hair, Which falls in many a dancing curl, Around her shoulders fair.
Her eyes are very dark and soft, And round their curtained bed, I've seen the fairy smiles full oft Their radiant beauty shed.
Her very tears are like the rain Which falls in summer's hour; Quick turned to glittering gems again, As sun succeeds to shower.
This witching child is very small; Her feeble, tiny hands, Can scarcely tend the mammoth doll, Which so much care demands.
Then, though her voice is very sweet, She does but little more Than simple childish songs repeat, And prattle baby lore.
She cannot skip, for ah! she's lame; One soft, white foot denies Its aid, her body to sustain, And weak and powerless lies.
Yet, strange to say, a crown she wears, Which claims our homage mute; And in her hand a sceptre bears, Whose sway we ne'er dispute.
From whence doth come the wondrous power She never fails to wield— Making strong hearts and wills, each hour, To her light wishes yield?
If but a touch of grief appear To veil that bright, pure face; If sickness cast its shadows there, Or pain its dark lines trace;
How anxious every means we take, The ill to drive away! And cheerfully, for her dear sake, Would watch both night and day.
And when the light of coming health Brightens that clear, dark eye, What joy is ours! priceless wealth, Earth's gold can never buy.
She makes us cast aside our book, Though filled with learning rare; To work is vain, when fun's arch look Those beaming features wear.
Whence is this spell? I can but think That, in sweet childhood's hour, E'er yet the soul has learned to drink From knowledge' fount of power;
Or felt what virtue is, or known Life's sins, not yet begun; Or seen how thick life's path is strown With dangers it must shun;
A spirit pure doth come, to dwell In these fresh-bursting minds, Who weaves round them the powerful spell Our hearts so firmly binds;
Our holier thoughts through them to wake; Our earth-dimmed vision clear; And through their purity, to make All holy things more dear.
If so, where speeds that spirit, when The soul has gathered strength— The child, become with busy men, A busy man at length?
Where has our childhood's spirit gone? How have we lost the charm, Thus thrown around life's early morn, Keeping us safe from harm?
Ay! whither speeds it? Rather say Is it not always by, Though, through the dust of life's noonday, We may not see it nigh;
Nor when dark clouds of sin would veil All glory from our sight; And make both heart and hope to fail, And brightness turn to night?
But when, midst virtue's clearer air, The eye no hindrance knows, How radiant stands the angel there! What holy gifts bestows!
My darling niece, whose form of grace Has made these thoughts arise, I'm sure this angel oft I trace In those clear depths—thine eyes.
And bursting forth from my full heart, My prayers to heaven ascend, That earth's dark changes ne'er may part Thee and thy angel friend.
That purity may always be The medium, clear and bright, Through which may ever shine on thee Heaven's own unclouded light.