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Their merry voices, that so blithely ring,
Sound like the echo of our own brief Spring:
And as, with heart-warm blessing, fond caress,
On this glad morn each upturned brow we press,
We feel, whatever cares disturb us now,
Yet, blessed, happy is our lot below:
And pray, that every Christmas yet to come,
May dawn as bright upon our peaceful home,
And find us wiser, better, far more meet
With holy joy this sacred morn to greet:
Thankful and glad to feel, with every closing year,
Our earthly lot more blest,—our Heavenly Home more near.
Sound like the echo of our own brief Spring:
And as, with heart-warm blessing, fond caress,
On this glad morn each upturned brow we press,
We feel, whatever cares disturb us now,
Yet, blessed, happy is our lot below:
And pray, that every Christmas yet to come,
May dawn as bright upon our peaceful home,
And find us wiser, better, far more meet
With holy joy this sacred morn to greet:
Thankful and glad to feel, with every closing year,
Our earthly lot more blest,—our Heavenly Home more near.
E.
Christmas, 1850.
