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COL. HARPER P. HUNT.
He stands in the city all golden, I tread in the wine-press of tears.I know that my two little brothers Are close to his bosom to-night,Their brows all aglow with the halo Of heaven's own radiant light.There, too, are my three little children, All safe on that bright-tinted shore,Where never a sorrow can reach them, Nor sickness, nor pain, evermore.
And Maggie—"my fair little daughter," Who left me three summers ago—Ran down to the brink of the river To meet her dear grandpa, I know;I fancy I see him enfolding Her close in his arms as of old,His silver locks floating and mingling With her sunny ringlets of gold;Her dimpled arms clinging about him In all of their soft, baby grace;Her rosy cheek lovingly resting Its innocent bloom on his face.
We all have our treasures in heaven, Our flowers immortally fair;
