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s velvet hand caressing Pats the nurse's cheek and bosom, Hoary Age grows young before it, As the branch that Winter blighted At the touch of Spring reviveth. When its healthful form evolveth, And with quadrupedal pleasure Creeping o'er the nursery carpet, Aiming still, its flowery surface With faint snatches to appropriate, Or the bolder art essaying On its two round feet to balance And propel the swaying body As with outstretch'd arms it hastens Tottering toward the best beloved, Hope, her freshest garland weaveth Glittering with the dews of morning. When the lisping tongue adventures The first tones of imitation, Or with magic speed o'ermasters The philosophy of language Twining round the mind of others, Preferences, and pains and pleasures, Tendrils strong, of sentient being, Seeking kindness and indulgence, Loving sports and smiles, and gladness, Tenderest love goes forth to meet it, Love that every care repayeth. * * * * * Thus the little German exile Leaning on her foster parents Brought a love that soothed and cheer'd them, And with sweet confiding meekness Taught to older ones the lesson Of the perfect trust, we children Of One Great Almighty Parent Should repose in His protection Goodness and unerring wisdom: Though His discipline mysterious Oft transcendeth feeble reason, And perchance overthrows the fabrics That in arrogance we builded, Call'd _our own_, and vainly rented To a troop of hopes and fancies, Gay-robed joys, or fond affections. * * * * * 'Tis a solemn thing and lovely, To adopt a child, whose mother Dwelleth in the land of spirits: In its weakness give it succor, Be in ignorance its teacher, In all sorrow its consoler, In temptation its defender, Save what else had been forsaken, Win for it a crown in Heaven,-- Tis a solemn thing and lovely, Such a work as God approveth. * * * * * Blessed are the souls that nurture With paternal care the orphan, Neath their roof-tree lending shelter, At their table breathing welcome, Giving armor for the journey And the warfare that awaiteth Every pilgrim, born of woman, Blessed, for the grateful prayer Riseth unto Him who heareth The lone sigh of the forsaken, Bendeth, mid the song of seraphs, To the crying of the ravens, From whose nest the brooding pinion By the archer's shaft was sever'd. * * * * * Pomp and we
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