Scattered on the nursery floor;
Blanche is gone!—her little fingers
Ne’er will fondle with them more.
Hide away the dolls, the dishes—
Precious treasures! O! so dear!
Lay aside the little dresses—
In each fold a mother’s tear.
God hath given—God hath taken,
Though it rends the heart in twain,
He but sends his frowns upon us,