Trying to echo those accents of love.
Ah! think of that, mothers! those syllables sweet
Of your darlings, how fondly the same you repeat!
You are trying so faithful to lead them aright
When poor little Winnie is freezing to-night.
See her! How slowly she’s moving along—
Her lips are too icy to echo the song.
How changed are her features! How feeble! how weak!
A pallor creeps over her forehead and cheek—
Perhaps it is only the flickering light,