On Being Blessed By A Child by Frances Anne Kemble

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The voice of childhood blessed me—and methought
It sounded like a solemn echo caught
Out of that world of light where angels dwell,
And sainted souls, who’ve bid this earth farewell.
Over the tempest rising in my breast
It fell, and lulled each stormy thought to rest,
Back to their bitter spring my tears were driven,
And my soul rose, serene and strong, to Heaven.
Prayer of the innocent! thou wilt prevail
With tenfold might, at that high throne of grace,
Where e’en the cry of sin is of avail,
And where the vilest suppliant finds a place.
I’ll bear thee with me as a spell of power,
To shield me in temptation’s fiery hour,
To cheer me, when with spirit worn and weary,
I gaze upon the path I’m doom’d to tread,
To point beyond that path, so dark and dreary,
To the bright bourne where all is finished.
And, oh dear child! who on life’s threshold now
Stand’st with thy late left heaven all round thee still,
May He who sent thee to this world of woe
Guide, and o’ershadow thee, through every ill,
And lead thee home when the dark dream is o’er,
As bright, as pure, more glorious than before!
So prayeth one, whose dawn was overcast,
Whose scorching noon of life is long since past,
Who waits the rising of a better day,
And bears her burthen weeping on her way.

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