THE EMIGRANT CHILD.
Reading edition
Small, yellow leaves, from locust boughs,
Sprinkle the deep green grass,
Where drowsy herds, on a zigzag path,
To bubbling streamlets pass.
The earliest lamps of fire-flies
Grow dim with the rose of June,
Now droning pipes, of the insect tribe,
Practice an autumn tune.
The clover-blooms, ’mid scented grass,
Await the dews of night,
The western pane, through clustering vines,
Shines in the evening light.
Yet why so light the hurrying tread
Across yon entrance hall?
And why no more on the garden walk,
Do children’s shadows fall?
The little stranger’s fevered lips,
Like sound of struggling rills,
Murmur of far, familiar things,
Among his native hills.
His words go out on evening airs,
Where glancing leaves are still,
And sadly tones of a foreign land
In the pleasant homestead thrill:
“Weep not, dear mother! think how great
With Jesus Christ the joy.”
Thus, ’mid our changing forest, lies
The little German boy.
E. H.