But he died as he lived; and the desolate night
He had courted and loved better far than the light,
Grew more and more dark, till he passed from our sight,
And what shall I say of him more?--
Give me rather John Littlewit's questionless faith,
To illume my lone path through the valley of death--
The arm that he leaned on, the mansion of light
That burst through the gloom on his kindling sight,
And I'll leave the poor sceptic his lore!--
Let me know only this--_I was lost and undone,
But am saved by the blood of the Crucified One_,
And I'm _wise_ although knowing no more!
TO A MOTHERLESS BABE.
Why art thou here, little, motherless one,--
Why art thou here in this bleak world alone?
With that innocent smile on thy beautiful brow,
What hath this stern world for such as thou?
Why art thou here in this world of unrest,
Thou that of angels shouldst be the guest?--
Oh, wild are the storms of this wintry clime,
Dire are the ills that will meet thee in time!
Lamb, with no shelter when tempests are near,
Dove, with no resting place, why art thou here?
THE CAGED BIRD'S SONG.
Pages:
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32