Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Lost Little One

The Lost Little One.

We miss her footfall on the floor,
 Amidst the nursery din;
Her tap-tap at our bedroom door,
 Her bright face peeping in.

And when to Heaven's high courts above
 Ascends our social prayer,
Though there are voices that we love,
 One sweet voice is not there.

And dreary seems the hours, and lone,
 That drag themselves along,
Now from our board her smile is gone,
 And from our hearth her song.

We miss that farewell laugh of hers,
 With its light joyous sound;
And the kiss between the balusters,
 When good-night time comes round.

And empty is her little bed,
 And on her pillow there
Must never rest that cherub head
 With its soft silken hair.

But often as we wake and weep,
 Our midnight thoughts will roam,
To visit her cold, dreamless sleep,
 In her last narrow home.

Then, then it is Faith's tear-dimmed eyes
 See through ethereal space,
Amidst the angel-crowded skies,
 That dear, that well-known face.

With beckoning hand she seems to say,
 "Though, all her sufferings o'er,
Your little one is borne away
 To this celestial shore.

"Doubt not she longs to welcome you
 To her glad, bright abode;
There happy, endless ages through,
 To live with her and God."