TO A LITTLE CHILD,

Who, soon after going to his first school, wrote home to his mother: ‘I am afraid I am spoiling your photograph by dropping my tears on it. I take it to bed with me every night.’

Couched within thy little nest,

Now the lessons all are done,

Clasp her Picture to thy breast,

Fondly clasp thy dearest one.

Freely let the tear-drops flow,

Tears of love, like showers of Spring;

In thy heart Love’s flowers shall grow,

And shall sweetest comfort bring.

Fear not, if those features fade,

If thy tears their form shall dim;

Prayers ascend, while thou art laid

Murmuring soft thy Evening Hymn.

Living lips, no artist made,

Nor the sun-ray’s magic might,

In thy Mother’s home have prayed

To thy God for thee to-night.

Angels fly from her to thee;

Thee and her good Angels tend;

So your Father bids, and He

Will your dear ones all defend.

Press her Picture to thy heart;

Smile upon it through thy tears;

Never let that love depart

Through the changing, coming years.

Sacred is the Mother’s love,

Dear to God the loving son;

Thou shalt be with her above,

When the work of life is done.

T. S. P.

St Bartholomew’s Hospital,
Feb. 17, 1878.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.