THE BELLS of the churches are ringing,— | |
| Papa and mamma have both gone,— | |
| And three little children sit singing | |
| Together this still Sunday morn. | |
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| While the bells toll away in the steeple, | 5 |
| Though too small to sit still in a pew, | |
| These busy religious small people | |
| Determine to have their church too. | |
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| So, as free as the birds, or the breezes | |
| By which their fair ringlets are fanned, | 10 |
| Each rogue sings away as he pleases, | |
| With book upside down in his hand. | |
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| Their hymn has no sense in its letter, | |
| Their music no rhythm nor tune: | |
| Our worship, perhaps, may be better, | 15 |
| But theirs reaches God quite as soon. | |
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| Their angels stand close to the Father; | |
| His heaven is bright with these flowers; | |
| And the dear God above us would rather | |
| Hear praise from their lips than from ours. | 20 |
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| Sing on, little children,—your voices | |
| Fill the air with contentment and love; | |
| All Nature around you rejoices, | |
| And the birds warble sweetly above. | |
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| Sing on,—for the proudest orations, | 25 |
| The liturgies sacred and long, | |
| The anthems and worship of nations, | |
| Are poor to your innocent song. | |
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| Sing on,—our devotion is colder, | |
| Though wisely our prayers may be planned, | 30 |
| For often we, too, who are older, | |
| Hold our book the wrong way in our hand. | |
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| Sing on,—our harmonic inventions | |
| We study with labor and pain; | |
| Yet often our angry contentions | 35 |
| Take the harmony out of our strain. | |
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| Sing on,—all our struggle and battle, | |
| Our cry when most deep and sincere,— | |
| What are they? A child’s simple prattle, | |
| A breath in the Infinite ear. | 40 |
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