Scattered on the nursery floor;

Blanche is gone!—her little fingers

Ne’er will fondle with them more.

Hide away the dolls, the dishes—

Precious treasures! O! so dear!

Lay aside the little dresses—

In each fold a mother’s tear.

God hath given—God hath taken,

Though it rends the heart in twain,

He but sends his frowns upon us,

To give back his smiles again.

She hath gone to ’wait your coming,

Smiling where the angels stand;

Lingering there at heaven’s gateway,

That she first may clasp your hand.