Classic Poem

C ELLIE , little Cellie!
Underneath the skies
There is not a bluebell
Bluer than her eyes;
Not a lakelet margined
By a daintier fringe
Than her long soft lashes
With their chestnut tinge.

Cellie, little Cellie!
Through the golden air
Not a sunbeam dances
Sunnier than her hair;
Curling o'er her forehead,
Or, in roguish grace,
Pulled by baby-fingers
All across her face.

Cellie, little Cellie!
Through the flowery South
Not a rose is blowing
Rosier than her mouth;
Pouting proud, the Princess!
Laughing next, to show,
With her Grace's kindness,
Four teeth in a row.

Cellie, little Cellie!
Through the meadows sweet
Not a lambkin gambols
Whiter than her feet;
Dainty feet! but palsied
By a baleful spell
Since that fiery sickness
Fiercely on her fell.

Cellie, little Cellie!
How we watched and wept
While the fever-vulture
To her vitals crept;
Day by day beseeching
That the risen King
Might vouchsafe to spare us
So beloved a thing!

Cellie! — Holy Saviour,
Who from death's dark sea
Safely back hast brought her
With us yet to be;
By her baby patience
Teach us lessons wise,
So Thou mayst receive us
With her to the skies.