MY OWN LITTLE GIRL
I’ve covered many and many a mile;
I’ve seen the setting of many a sun;
I have oft been charmed by the infant’s smile,
Pondering gladly life’s journey begun.
I’ve met with the great and small not a few;
I’ve sat at the feet of the learned knight,
I’ve stood on the stage with Gentile and Jew,
Addressing the throng by day and by night.
I’ve witnessed the way of the meek and wise,
Ah, the vanishing joy of the greedy;
And more has come under my eager eyes,
Seeing the re-filled cup of the needy.
But never a joy I’ve felt was my own—
Which bachelor old and maiden know not—
Is equal to that when I return home,
My humble home, yet delectable spot,
And take to my heart my own little girl,
All laughter and love—the joy of my life.
Right here let me rest, far away the mad whirl,
And feast on pure love, free from all strife.
My own little girl,
My priceless pearl,
With dance of delight,
A musical sprite—
My Artena.
With hair of pure gold,
With heart never cold,
Who learns with a zest,
And strives for the best—
My Artena.
Ten years old today—
And never to decay—
May she aye be sweet,
And at length complete,
My Artena.
MY BUTTERFLY[11]
My Butterfly, my wondrous Butterfly,
Forsaking temple great, thou choosest me,
When form and burnished wings arrive—I see
With joy, as ne’er before, thy glory nigh.
We journey through the city, thou and I,
In store and street with joined hearts and free,
While men admire thy trust and amity,
But wonder not in thee, nor question why.
At length thy wings bedecked with Heaven’s art,
Begin to wave, as Nature planned, and east
Thou farest forth with grace, but to my heart
Thou ever clingest still. Fly on and feast
On nectar such as men have never wrought;
In thee is trust and love and, why not, thought?
Was That Somebody I?
O child of hope, why left to go astray,
And rend this heart of mine?
Some one knew not, nor cared what ruthless way
You wend—once babe benign—
Was that somebody I?
If God, with perfect heart, loved you, my child,
And to Jesus likened thee—
Why so favored first, now sad and wild?
Who failed to love? Ah me!
Was that somebody I?
One said he loved the Christ and all of his;
He read the Word and prayed;
Believed that one the cruel creed, “What is,
Is best?” And so you strayed—
Was that somebody I?
At home neglected, nowhere a faithful friend,
You listless wandered on;
Till fool or knave declared: “You’re bad, your end
Looms dark—a criminal born!”
Was that somebody I?
Despised yet more—the Christ and thee—then crime!
You bore with shame the chains!
Your training and your arts, in Hell’s own clime,
Went on with damning drains—
Great Heaven! was it I?
Did I neglect you, child, my Father’s child,
I judge, and send you down?
Myself at ease, while you were curst, reviled—
No aid gave I, no crown?
Then Christ must pass me by!
