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Poem	("Ma fille, va prier!") {XXXVII., June, 1830.} I. Come, child, to prayer; the busy day is done, A golden star gleams through the dusk of night; The hills are trembling in the rising mist, The rumbling wain looms dim upon the sight; All things wend home to rest; the roadside trees Shake off their dust, stirred by the evening breeze. The sparkling stars gush forth in sudden blaze, As twilight open flings the doors of night; The fringe of carmine narrows in the west, The rippling waves are tipped with silver light; The bush, the path—all blend in one dull gray; The doubtful traveller gropes his anxious way. Oh, day! with toil, with wrong, with hatred rife; Oh, blessed night! with sober calmness sweet, The sad winds moaning through the ruined tower, The age-worn hind, the sheep's sad broken bleat— All nature groans opprest with toil and care, And wearied craves for rest, and love, and prayer. At eve the babes with angels converse hold, While we to our strange pleasures wend our way, Each with its little face upraised to heaven, With folded hands, barefoot kneels down to pray, At selfsame hour with selfsame words they call On God, the common Father of them all. And then they sleep, and golden dreams anon, Born as the busy day's last murmurs die, In swarms tumultuous flitting through the gloom Their breathing lips and golden locks descry. And as the bees o'er bright flowers joyous roam, Around their curtained cradles clustering come. Oh, prayer of childhood! simple, innocent; Oh, infant slumbers! peaceful, pure, and light; Oh, happy worship! ever gay with smiles, Meet prelude to the harmonies of night; As birds beneath the wing enfold their head, Nestled in prayer the infant seeks its bed. HENRY HIGHTON, M.A.
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