Classic Poem

The church-bells for service are ringing,
The father and mother have gone;
And three little golden-haired children
Are left in the doorway alone.

For these are too young for the meeting—
The busy and frolicsome elves—
So they think to praise God like their elders
With a holy-time all by themselves!

Each one a big volume has taken
And holds it top-down 'gainst the breast;
Forthwith the devout little mimics
Sing out in their loudest and best!

They know not themselves what they're singing,
And each takes a tune of his own:—
Sing on, O ye children, your voices
Are heard at the heavenly throne!

And there stand your angels in glory,
While songs to the Father they raise,
Who out of the mouths of the children
Hath perfected worship and praise.

Sing on; over there in the garden
There singeth an answering choir;
'T is the brood of light-hearted birdlings
That chirp in the bloom-laden brier.

Sing on; there is trust in your music,—
The Father, he asks not for more;
Quick flieth the heart that is sinless
Like a dove to the heavenly door.

Sing on; we sing who are older,
Yet little we too understand:
And our Bibles, how often we hold them
The bottom-side up in our hand!

Sing on; in the songs of our service
We follow each note of the card;
But alas, in our strife with each other
How oft is the melody marred!

Sing on; for earth's loftiest music
Though ever so fine and so clear,
What is it? The lisping of children,
A breath in the Infinite ear!