Classic Poem

What , my blossom rich and rare,
Shall the bard with thee compare?
Blue-bells dangling o'er the loch,
Hare-bells springing by the rock,
Roses drooping from the wall,
Where the summer sunbeams fall,
White-rimm'd daisies on the lea?
No, they cannot vie with thee.

In thy mother's loving sight,
Thou art like a beam of light.
Tender, pure, and beautiful,
With thy Maker's essence full.
To thy father thou art more
Than the worth of hills of ore.
Cheerful brothers welcome thee,
And thy sisters chant for glee.

Winter night and summer day
Oft have come and pass'd away,
Since thy parents sought a name
For their little sweet that came,
Winning from them many a kiss:
So a poet gave thee this,
Little Laura, Laura dear,
Lent us for a season here.

Hid in this sweet casket here
Is a thing than life more dear.
'Tis thy soul, my precious one,
Which will live when pales the sun.
Nothing will I ask beside,
Than that Christ may be thy Guide,
Through this clime of noise and din,
To that land where lurks no sin.