A FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN.
229
Begin, sweet birds, the accustomed strain,
Come, warble loud and clear;
Alas! alas! you're weeping all,
You're sobbing in my ear;
Good night—go say the prayer she taught,
Beside your little bed,
The lips that used to bless you there,
Are silent with the dead.
A father's hand your course may guide
Amid the thorns of life,
His care protect those shrinking plants
That dread the storms of strife;
But who, upon your infant hearts
Shall like that mother write?
Who touch the strings that rule the soul?
Dear, smitten flock, good night!
