Classic Poem

His little hands were meekly clasped,
And to that cheek so fair,
A ringlet carelessly had strayed,
And lightly lingered there.

Beneath those silken lids that drooped,
Were eyes serenely bright;
An infant kneels, and angels gaze
With rapture at the sight.

Well may they strike their golden harps,
And swell their songs of praise;
An infant kneels in artless strains
Its feeble voice to raise.

Oh, what a lesson! if a child
So innocent must kneel,
Should not our sinful time-seared hearts
A deep contrition feel?

How often from a little child
May we a lesson learn!
Reminded of our wanderings,
And urged to quick return.