When at murmuring eve, the angel of rest
Foldeth us lovingly close to her breast,
Then I think of my own pretty Rose.
Beautiful world, that so well can impart
The lessons of loveliness fit for the heart!
A stream of sweet tenderness flows
From bird and from flower—from streamlet and sky—
From beauty below and from beauty on high,
And the smiles of my own pretty Rose.”
“Ah! Miss Mary!” said a voice, “I am always glad to hear you sing, and particularly such a happy, thankful song as that.”