yes; we own it, we own it;
But not too young for the grace
That was so nameless and blameless,
For the yearning and tender embrace!

He hung, he hung on thy bosom
In that happiest, weariest hour,
A dear little bird to its blossom,
The beautiful, dutiful flower.

And thus he grew by its sweetness,
He grew by its sweetness so
That smile unto smile responded--
But a little while ago!

And you and I were happy
In many a vision fair
Of a ripe and glorious manhood
Which the world and we should share.

In a little while the patter
Of two little feet was heard;
And many a look it cheered us,
A look that was more than a word.

In a little while he uttered
The words we longed to hear;
And mamma and papa blessed him
With a blessing of hope and fear.

In a little while he budded,
A bud of the promising Spring,
And O for the beautiful blossom,
And O for the fruit it will bring!

The joy, they never may know it
Who never have parents been,
The joy of a swelling bosom,
With a growing light within:

A light that is soft and tender,
And growing in strength and grace,
Which wreathes a form that is slender
And glows in a dear little face!

But life it knoweth the shadow,
The shadow as well as the shine;
For the one it follows the other,
And both together are thine.

For the bud it never unfolded,
The light it flickered away,
And whose is the power to utter
The grief of that bitterest day?

His form is yet before me,
With the fair and lofty brow,
And the day since last we kissed it--
Is it long since then and now?

Dearest, it seems but a minute,
Though Winter has spread the snow,
Meek purity's mantle to cover
The one that is resting below.

In the acre of God, that is yonder,
And unto the west his head,
He sleepeth the sleep untroubled,
With one to watch at his bed.

For the bright and guardian angel
Who beholdeth the Father's face,
Doth stand as a sentinel watching
O'er the dear one's resting-place;

Doth stand as a sentinel guarding
The dust of the precious dead,
Till at length the trumpet soundeth,
When the years of the world are sped;

And the throng which can not be numbered
Put on their garme