She thinks of the days when a glad little child,
Her heart, as her baby’s, was playfully wild—
Of her own watchful mother—her blessing, her prayer,
Who guarded those days from the footsteps of care.
Her far smiling home rises full on her view,
When she—like a blossom of summer growth, grew,
The fields where she roved in her innocent mirth,
And her indoor enjoyments around the old hearth.
Those days have departed—their sunlight has fled,
And pale is the ray that gleams over the dead;