LITTLE MAGGIE.
39
With eager grasp your fingers clasp Life's ever-dipping oars;Oh, row with care, sweet baby fair, A woman's bark is yours!
Your hands so frail must guide your sail O'er waters high and wild,Whose smoothest sea will never be A placid one, my child.
Your soul will meet with storm and sleet, With tempests on your way;For clouds will rise in brightest skies, Cast anchor where you may.
O'er womanhood should sorrow brood To bow your woman's pride,Like stars at night, let hope's pure light Reflect upon the tide.
The darkest fate that dares await Your voyage to enshroud,Its power will lose if faith's bright hues Are arched upon the cloud.
