No grateful incense from that heart
Ascended up to pitying heaven.

'Twas midnight's deep and silent hour,
When nature folds her hands to sleep,
And Angels come to bathe the flowers,
With dewy tears they only weep.

She heeded not the pulse of time
That throbb'd the moments of the night,
Nor yet the early morning's dawn,
That ting'd the east with rosy light.

But with a mother's earnest eye,
Watch'd o'er her infant's peaceful rest:
Until his gentle slumber passed,
Then clasp'd him fondly to her breast.

Childhood's brief years in sin were spent;
The stubborn knee ne'er bent in prayer;
Those lips ne'er spake a Saviour's name,
"Our Father" never lingered there.

Youth's golden season, too, was passed
In wanton sports and misspent time;
And soon he stood on manhood's verge,
A hardened wretch, prepared for crime.

Though so forbidding in his mein,
He woo'd and won a gentle bride,