﻿THE CHILD AND THE MUSICAL BOX. 



137 



Oh, little child ! how canst thou lay 



That box close to thy cheek, 

 And take such pleasure in the sound 



That makes me sick and weak? 

 It cannot play but those two airs, 



And o'er and o'er again 

 It plays them, till the dark thoughts press 



Like madness on my brain. 



Yes ; " Home, Sweet Home," and " Auld Lang Syne," 



Seem full as sad to me 

 As would the grave of one I loved 



Beneath our try sting-tree. 

 But life is now thy budding time 



Of feelings half divine, 

 And thou enjoyest what I lost 



In days of " Auld Lang Syne.' 



: i 



Thy mother's voice is in that strain, 



She sings it oft at even, 

 And her face grows meek and loving, 



And her eyes are raised to heaven. 

 She singeth many a simple song 



Thy father loves them well 

 But not like hers the voice I hear, 



Recalled by music's spell. 



Canst thou not hear the voice I hear 



My inmost soul it stirs ; 

 Sweet as thy mother's voice it is, 



Yet deeper far than hers. 

 It singeth from a full, sad heart, 



And answer finds in mine, 

 " That seas between us broad have rolled 



Since days of ' Auld Lang Syne. : 



7 15 



Not sea alone, which skill of man 



Might easily pass o'er, 

 And bring us, with the help of God, 



Safe hand in hand once more ; 

 But seas o'er which the voyager, 



Howe'er his heart may yearn, 

 Can never to the friend on shore, 



He wandered from, return. 



