There came a merry voice
Forth from those lips of rose,
As tireless through its fringing flowers
The tuneful brooklet flows,
And with the nurslings feet
Engaged in busy play
It made the parents’ pleasant home
A joyance all the day.
There breath'd a languid tone
Forth from those pallid lips,
As when some planet of the night
Sinks in its dread eclipse.
“Sing to me, sing,” it cried,
While the red fever reign'd,
“Oh sing of Jesus," it implored
While struggling life remained.
Then rose a mournful sound,
The solemn funeral knell,
And silent anguish settled where
The nursery's idol fell.
But he who so desired
His Saviour's name to hear
Doth in His glorious presence smile,
Above this cloud-wrapp'd sphere.