Classic Poem

Come , gather closer to my side,
My little smitten flock,
And I will tell of him who brought
Pure water from the rock;
Who boldly led God's people forth
From Egypt's wrath and guile,
And once a cradled babe did float
All helpless on the Nile.

You're weary, precious ones, your eyes
Are wandering far and wide;
Think ye of her who knew so well
Your tender thought to guide?
Who could to wisdom's sacred lore
Your fix'd attention claim?
Ah! never from your hearts erase
That blessed mother's name.

'Tis time to sing your evening hymn,
My youngest infant dove;
Come, press your velvet cheek to mine,
And learn the lay of love;
My sheltering arms can clasp you all,
My poor deserted throng;
Cling as you used to cling to her
Who sings the angel's song.

Begin, sweet birds, the accustom'd strain;
Come, warble loud and clear;
Alas! alas! you're weeping all,
You're sobbing in my ear.
Good-night — go say the prayer she taught
Beside your little bed;
The lips that used to bless you there
Are silent with the dead.

A father's hand your course may guide
Amid the thorns of life,
His care protect those shrinking plants
That dread the storms of strife;
But who, upon your infant hearts,
Shall like that mother write?
Who touch the strings that rule the soul?
Dear, smitten flock, good-night!