The sunbeams glint thy woodland way, 

 The squirrel skips before thy feet, 



And bluebells in the bracken say 

 Little hands gather us : we are sweet ! 



I know not on this thorny earth 



A purity so white, intense ; 

 Sin howling at the doors of mirth 



Shrinks from such innocence. 



Oh that the chafing waves of time 

 With muffled moan and stifled roar, 



With all the ages' silt and slime, 

 Fret at this green, green shore ! 



Oh that my jealous eyes must see 

 This joyance fade from lip and eye, 



And ever 'twixt my child and me 

 A chilling shadow lie. 



Oh that this smooth white brow must cloud, 

 The calm of these brave eyes be riven, 



Not all thy thoughts be said aloud, 

 Not all thy smiles be given I 



Oh that these little feet must stand 

 Where now I stumble, grope and pray, 



And where another Father's hand 

 Alone must guide thy way! 



86 



