She cannot skip, for ah! she's lame;
One soft, white foot denies
Its aid, her body to sustain,
And weak and powerless lies.
Yet, strange to say, a crown she wears,
Which claims our homage mute;
And in her hand a sceptre bears,
Whose sway we ne'er dispute.
From whence doth come the wondrous power
She never fails to wield—
Making strong hearts and wills, each hour,
To her light wishes yield?
If but a touch of grief appear
To veil that bright, pure face;
If sickness cast its shadows there,
Or pain its dark lines trace;
How anxious every means we take,
The ill to drive away!
And cheerfully, for her dear sake,
Would watch both night and day.
And when the light of coming health
Brightens that clear, dark eye,
What joy is ours! priceless wealth,
Earth's gold can never buy.
She makes us cast aside our book,
Though filled with learning rare;
To work is vain, when fun's arch look
Those beaming features wear.
Whence is this spell? I can but think
That, in sweet childhood's hour,
E'er yet the soul has learned to drink
From knowledge' fount of power;
Or felt what virtue is, or known
Life's sins, not yet begun;
Or seen how thick life's path is strown
With dangers it must shun;
A spirit pure doth come, to dwell
In these fresh-bursting minds,
Who weaves round them the powerful spell
Our hearts so firmly binds;