LITTLE CHARLIE.
Beside our pilgrim path there sprang
A pleasant little rill,
Whose murmur, ever in our ear,
Was cheerful music still.
The earliest rays of brightening morn,
Back to our eyes it flashed,
And onward through the livelong day,
In tireless sport it dashed.
We loved the little sparkling rill,
We sunned us in its glance;—
The turf looked green where, near our feet,
It kept its joyous dance.
And welcome to our weariness
Was the clear draught it gave;
E'en way-worn age took heart and bowed,
Its aching brow to lave.
But where is now our pleasant rill,
We miss it from our side;
We looked, and it was at its full—
We turned, and it was dried.
Oh Father.—thou whose gracious hand
Bestowed the boon at first,
A parched and desert land is this—
Let not thy servants thirst!
Fountains of joy at thy right hand
Are gushing evermore—
Bid them for us, thy fainting ones,
Their rich abundance pour.