I know a darling little girl,
  With silky, chestnut hair,
Which falls in many a dancing curl,
  Around her shoulders fair.

Her eyes are very dark and soft,
  And round their curtained bed,
I’ve seen the fairy smiles full oft
  Their radiant beauty shed.

Her very tears are like the rain
  Which falls in summer’s hour;
Quick turned to glittering gems again,
  As sun succeeds to shower.

This witching child is very small;
  Her feeble, tiny hands,
Can scarcely tend the mammoth doll,
  Which so much care demands.

Then, though her voice is very sweet,
  She does but little more
Than simple childish songs repeat,
  And prattle baby lore.

She cannot skip, for ah! she’s lame;
  One soft, white foot denies
Its aid, her body to sustain,
  And weak and powerless lies.

Yet, strange to say, a crown she wears,
  Which claims our homage mute;
And in her hand a sceptre bears,
  Whose sway we ne’er dispute.

From whence doth come the wondrous power
  She never fails to wield—­
Making strong hearts and wills, each hour,
  To her light wishes yield?

If but a touch of grief appear
  To veil that bright, pure face;
If sickness cast its shadows there,
  Or pain its dark lines trace;

How anxious every means we take,
  The ill to drive away! 
And cheerfully, for her dear sake,
  Would watch both night and day.

And when the light of coming health
  Brightens that clear, dark eye,
What joy is ours! priceless wealth,
  Earth’s gold can never buy.

She makes us cast aside our book,
  Though filled with learning rare;
To work is vain, when fun’s arch look
  Those beaming features wear.

Whence is this spell?  I can but think
  That, in sweet childhood’s hour,
E’er yet the soul has learned to drink
  From knowledge’ fount of power;

Or felt what virtue is, or known
  Life’s sins, not yet begun;
Or seen how thick life’s path is strown
  With dangers it must shun;

A spirit pure doth come, to dwell
  In these fresh-bursting minds,
Who weaves round them the powerful spell
  Our hearts so firmly binds;

Our holier thoughts through them to wake;
  Our earth-dimmed vision clear;
And through their purity, to make
  All holy things more dear.

If so, where speeds that spirit, when
  The soul has gathered strength—­
The child, become with busy men,
  A busy man at length?

Where has our childhood’s spirit gone? 
  How have we lost the charm,
Thus thrown around life’s early morn,
  Keeping us safe from harm?

Ay! whither speeds it?  Rather say
  Is it not always by,
Though, through the dust of life’s noonday,
  We may not see it nigh;