Classic Poem

Sweet stranger! lovely child! Oh! canst thou see
The toilsome world where thou art come to dwell?
Though fair to thy young heart its looks may be,
Its sorrows soon may end its winning spell.
How I have toil'd against them, who can tell;
Or who can tell how many wait for thee?
But after I have bid that world farewell,
Then thou mayst run that course and follow me.

Thy little feet may have to tread the hills
Of other lands, and heavy toil and woe
May spoil thy pretty looks, and break thy heart;
But God, when He shall take thee from thy ills,
Will bring thy soul to mine again, I know,
And we shall meet, my child, no more to part.