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IF sweet it is to see the babe
Kneel by its mother's side,
And lisp its brief and holy prayer,
At hush of eventide, --
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And sweet to mark the blooming youth
'Neath morning's purple ray,
Breathe incense of the heart to Him,
Who ruleth night and day, --
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How doth the bosom's secret pulse
With strong emotion swell,
And tender pitying thoughts awake,
Which language may not tell, --
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When yon mute train who meekly bow
Beneath affliction's rod,
Whose lip no utterance hath for man,
Pour forth the soul to God.
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They have no garment for the thought
That springs to meet its Sire,
No tone to flush the glowing cheek,
Or fan Devotion's fire;
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Yet upward to the Eternal Throne
The spirit's sigh may soar,
As sure as if the wing of speech
Its hallowed burden bore.
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Were language theirs, perchance their tale
Of treasured grief or fear,
Might cold or unresponsive fall
Even on a brother's ear,
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So may they grave upon their minds
In youth's unfolding day,
'Tis better to commune with Heaven
Than with their kindred clay.
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The pomp of words may sometimes clog
The ethereal spirit's flight,
But in the silence of their souls
Burns one long Sabbath light, --
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If God doth in that temple dwell,
Their fancied loss is gain;
Ye perfect listeners to His voice!
Say, is our pity vain?
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