|MY BABES THAT NEVER GROW OLD.|
How oft in the gathering twilight
I dream of the streets of gold,
Of my little angel children,
"My babes that never grow old."
I can see my tiny woman
With doll, and book held tight--
Keeping time with my every footstep,--
From early morn until night.
And then, a white-robed figure
Is kneeling at eventide,
And a voice lisps, "God bless papa,
And dear little brother beside.
I see my laughing treasure,
My darling baby boy,
With his little soft hands waving,
And his cheeks aglow with joy.
The clap, clap, clap, for papa to come,
To bring the baby a fife and drum,
Then each little pig that to market went,
And the one wee pig at home.
In the bureau drawer hid out of sight
Is the rattle, and cup, and ball;
The beautiful scrap-book laid away
With dresses, and shoes and all;
And then, as the tears begin to flow,
And grief to find a voice,
A soft cooing sound I hear at my side,
That bids me ever rejoice.
I clasp her quick in a loving embrace
My one lamb out of the fold,
Yet I ponder oft as I softly kiss,
Will baby ever grow old?
Then cometh this thought to ease the pain,
How God in his Book hath given,
"Suffer little children to come unto Me,
For of such is the kingdom of heaven."