A LITTLE child, six summers old,
So thoughtful and so fair —
There seemed about her pleasant ways
A more than childish air —
Was sitting, on a summer eve,
Beneath a spreading tree,
Intent upon an ancient book,
Which lay upon her knee.
She turned each page with careful hand,
And strained her sight to see,
Until the drowsy shadows slept
Upon the grassy lea.
Then closed the book, and upward looked,
And soon began to sing
A simple verse of hopeful love,
This very childish thing:
“While here below how sweet to know
Christ’s wondrous love and story;
And then, through grace, to see his face,
And live with him in glory!”
That little child, one dreary night
Of wintry wind and storm,
Was tossing on a weary couch
Her weak and wasted form.
And in her pain, and in its pause,
She clasped her hands in prayer
(Strange that we had no thoughts of heaven,
While hers were only there),
Until she said, “Oh, mother, dear,
How sad you seem to be!
Have you forgotten that he said,
‘Let children come to me?’
“Dear mother, bring the blessed book,
Come, mother, let us sing;”
And then again, with faltering tongue,
She sang, that childish thing―
“While here below, how sweet to know
His wondrous love and story;
And then, through grace, to see his face,
And live with him in glory!”
Underneath a spreading tree
A narrow mound is seen,
Which first was covered by the snow,
Then blossom’d into green.
Here first I heard that childish voice,
That sings on earth no more:
In heaven it hath a richer tone,
And sweeter than before.
For those who know his love before —
So runs the wondrous story —
In heaven, through grace, shall see his face,
And dwell with him in glory.
Extracted.