Читать книгу Poems - Julia C. R. Dorr - Страница 6

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What mother-angel tended thee last night, Sweet baby mine? Cradled upon what breast all soft and white Didst thou recline?

Who took thee, frail and tender as thou art, Within her arms? And shielded thee, close claspéd to her heart, From all alarms?

Surely that God who lured thee from the breast That hoped to be The softest pillow and the sweetest rest Thenceforth to thee,

Sent thee not forth into the dread unknown Without a guide, To grope in darkness, treading all alone The path untried.

Compassionate is He who called thee, child; And well I know He sent some Blessed One of aspect mild With thee to go

Through the dark valley, where the shadows dim Forever brood, That the low music of an angel’s hymn Might cheer the solitude!