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,