Poems (McDonald)/The Child at Prayer

by Mary Noel McDonald

THE CHILD AT PRAYER.

'Twas summer eve, the rosy light
 Had faded from the sky,
And stars came twinkling pure and bright,
 Through the blue arch on high:
The western breezes softly stole
 To kiss the sleeping flower,
And kindly, o'er the wearied earth,
 Came evening's peaceful hour.

There sat, within a quiet room,
 A mother, young and fair,
And close beside her knee, there knelt
 A cherub boy in prayer:
For every living thing he loves,
 That prayer ascends to heaven,
While for himself, he humbly asks
 'Each sin may be forgiven.

And oft, in after years, when care
 Shall bow his spirit down,
And the world, the cold, unfeeling world,
 Shall meet him with a frown;
Or when, allured from virtue's path,
 He treads a dangerous way,
O, he will turn to this blest hour,
 When first he knelt to pray.

And the kind hand, which then was laid
 Upon his silken hair,
And the soft voice, which taught him first
 His simple words of prayer—
Will come again, with thrilling power,
 To still his pulses wild,
And lure him back in that dark hour,
 Once more in heart, a child.

'Tis o'er—the last "good night," is said—
 The last fond kiss is given—
But rises not that childish prayer
 To Him who dwells in heaven?
Will not His ear give heed as soon
 Unto an infant's cry,
As when a seraph bow, the knee
 Before His throne on high?

Yes, He who marks the sparrow's fall—
 Who feeds the raven's young—
Will listen to the simple words
 Lisped by an infant tongue;
And thou, blest mother, teach thy child
 Early to kneel and pray,
'Twill prove a beacon of the past,
 To light his future way.