Fond memory near it lingers,
And, like a happy child,
She plucks, with busy fingers,
And wreathes the roses wild.
Yet many a lip, whose burning
Its limpid drops allayed,
Has since, to ashes turning,
Been veiled in silent shade.
Still we are here, and telling
About our infant play;
Where that free spring is welling,
So true, and far away.
But O! the change, my brother!
Our father’s head is hoar;
The tender name of mother
Is ours to call no more.
And now, around thee gather
Such little ones as we
Were then, beside our father,
And look to theirs in thee.
While fast our years are wasting,
Their numbers none can tell;
So let us hence be hasting
To find our Father’s well.
Come, we will speed us thither,
And from its mossy brink,
To flowers that ne’er shall wither
Look up to heaven and drink.
They spring beside the waters,
Our Father there will give
To all his sons and daughters,
Where they shall drink and live.