Aged Three Years, on Hearing his Sister Sarah—Aged
Five Years, Teaching Him to Pray
‘Tis sweet to see thine earnest eyes
Bent upward, and to hear thy voice,
Lisp forth to Heaven thy simple prayer.
Methinks that angels might rejoice
To see a worship pure as thine,
An offering at th’ Eternal’s shrine,—
And thy fair teacher, with her young head bent
Toward thee; never yet hath painter’s hand
Fashioned a thing more lovely, ‘mid the stores
Which Nature lavishes of bright and grand;
The look of genuine piety that beams
O’er her sweet face, outshines his fairest dreams.
There are many lovely things on earth,
That may glad the poet’s breast.
The minstrel’s strain, the voice of mirth,
May lull and thoughts to rest;
But thy voice and prayer are sweeter to me
Than the poet’s wildest minstrelsy.
Oh! ever thus, my cherub boy,
May thine accents glad mine ears;
And ever thus may thy bright eyes shine,
Undimmed by grief or tears;
And thy lip be ever as pure to pray
To the throne of God, as it was to-day.
