THE SNOWDROP—INFANCY. 
9 
HEY tell me thou art come from a far world, 
Babe of my bosom! that these little arms. 
Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings. 
Move with the memory of flights scarce o’er,— 
That through these fringed lids we see the soul 
Steep’d in the blue of its remembered home; 
And while thou sleep’st come messengers, they say, 
Whispering to thee,—and ’tis then I see 
Upon thy baby lips the smile of heaven. 
God! who gavest 
Into my guiding hand this wanderer, 
To lead her through a world whose darkling paths 
I tread with steps so faltering,—leave not me 
To bring her to the gates of heaven, alone! 
I feel my feebleness. Let these stay on,— 
The angels who now visit her in dreams! 
Bid them be near her pillow till in death 
The closed eyes look upon Thy face once more ! 
And let the light and music, which the world 
Borrows of heaven, and which her infant sense 
Hails with sweet recognition, be to her 
A voice to call her upward, and a lamp 
To lead her steps to Thee. 
N. P. Willis. 
c 
