Our holier thoughts through them to wake;
Our earth-dimmed vision clear;
And through their purity, to make
All holy things more dear.
If so, where speeds that spirit, when
The soul has gathered strength—
The child, become with busy men,
A busy man at length?
Where has our childhood's spirit gone?
How have we lost the charm,
Thus thrown around life's early morn,
Keeping us safe from harm?
Ay! whither speeds it? Rather say
Is it not always by,
Though, through the dust of life's noonday,
We may not see it nigh;
Nor when dark clouds of sin would veil
All glory from our sight;
And make both heart and hope to fail,
And brightness turn to night?
But when, midst virtue's clearer air,
The eye no hindrance knows,
How radiant stands the angel there!
What holy gifts bestows!
My darling niece, whose form of grace
Has made these thoughts arise,
I'm sure this angel oft I trace
In those clear depths—thine eyes.
And bursting forth from my full heart,
My prayers to heaven ascend,
That earth's dark changes ne'er may part
Thee and thy angel friend.
That purity may always be
The medium, clear and bright,
Through which may ever shine on thee
Heaven's own unclouded light.