Come, child, to prayer; the busy day is done,
A golden star gleams through the dusk
of night;
The hills are trembling in the rising mist,
The rumbling wain looms dim upon the sight;
All things wend home to rest; the roadside trees
Shake off their dust, stirred by the evening
breeze.
The sparkling stars gush forth in sudden blaze,
As twilight open flings the doors of night;
The fringe of carmine narrows in the west,
The rippling waves are tipped with silver
light;
The bush, the path—all blend in one dull
gray;
The doubtful traveller gropes his anxious way.
Oh, day! with toil, with wrong, with hatred rife;
Oh, blessed night! with sober calmness
sweet,
The sad winds moaning through the ruined tower,
The age-worn hind, the sheep’s sad
broken bleat—
All nature groans opprest with toil and care,
And wearied craves for rest, and love, and prayer.
At eve the babes with angels converse hold,
While we to our strange pleasures wend
our way,
Each with its little face upraised to heaven,
With folded hands, barefoot kneels down
to pray,
At selfsame hour with selfsame words they call
On God, the common Father of them all.
And then they sleep, and golden dreams anon,
Born as the busy day’s last murmurs
die,
In swarms tumultuous flitting through the gloom
Their breathing lips and golden locks
descry.
And as the bees o’er bright flowers joyous roam,
Around their curtained cradles clustering come.
Oh, prayer of childhood! simple, innocent;
Oh, infant slumbers! peaceful, pure, and
light;
Oh, happy worship! ever gay with smiles,
Meet prelude to the harmonies of night;
As birds beneath the wing enfold their head,
Nestled in prayer the infant seeks its bed.
HENRY HIGHTON, M.A.
To prayer, my child! and O, be thy first prayer
For her who, many nights, with anxious care,
Rocked thy first cradle; who took thy
infant soul
From heaven and gave it to the world; then rife
With love, still drank herself the gall
of life,
And left for thy young lips the honeyed bowl.
And then—I need it more—then
pray for me!
For she is gentle, artless, true like thee;—
She has a guileless heart, brow placid
still;
Pity she has for all, envy for none;
Gentle and wise, she patiently lives on;
And she endures, nor knows who does the
ill.
In culling flowers, her novice hand has ne’er
Touched e’en the outer rind of vice; no snare
With smiling show has lured her steps
aside:
On her the past has left no staining mark;
Nor knows she aught of those bad thoughts which, dark
Like shade on waters, o’er the spirit
glide.
She knows not—nor mayest thou—the
miseries
In which our spirits mingle: vanities,
Remorse, soul-gnawing cares, Pleasure’s
false show:
Passions which float upon the heart like foam,
Bitter remembrances which o’er us come,
And Shame’s red spot spread sudden
o’er the brow.
