No sense had she of change, or loss of thought,
With those around her no communion sought;
Scarce knew she of her being. Fancy wild
Had placed her in her father’s house a child;
It was her mother sang her to her rest;
The lark awoke her, springing from his nest;
The bees sang cheerily the live long day,
Lurking ’mid flowers wherever she did play;
The Sabbath bells rang as in years gone by,
Swelling and falling on the soft wind’s sigh;