Than simple childish songs repeat,
And prattle baby lore.

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,