  Hers was the voice that moved us when we woke, In childish prattle, or in broken song, Hers was the smile, that like a sunbeam broke Through all our clouds, and shone all cares among. We only feel her value, when she’s lost. So small, so young, and yet she made a place We ne’er can fill, which never can be filled; Where e’er we turn, we still can see her face, And in the silent night our hearts are thrilled By her small voice, as if what was our own Feared yet to leave us, and to be alone. We only understand our bitter loss, But not the little life so filled with pain, We cannot understand the heavy cross Borne by our darling flower without a stain: We only know a grace has from us passed, And a dark cloud upon our lives is cast. Her little playmates stood with awe and love Around her grave, and sang the while she slept; But when the bright blue sky was hidden above, They stood in silence, and in silence wept; They knew her little feet would never tread Again this earth, which covered her fair head. Farewell, dear child! We still shall touch thy hand, We still shall see thy face, and hear thy tongue. Where art thou? In the far-off heavenly land, With Christ’s protecting love around thee thrown? Where art thou? Shall we meet thee ne’er to part, And know thee as of old—Light of our heart? A. Brodrick. Pretoria, November 17, 1874. |
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