Blest Are The Pure In Heart, For

The Watchful Mother Tarries Nigh Though Sleep Have Closed Her Infant's Eye, For Should He Wake, And Find Her Gone.

Why Should We Faint And Fear To Live Alone,since All Alone, So Heaven Has Willed, We Die?nor Even The Tenderest Heart, And Next Our Own,knows Half The Reasons Why We Smile And Sigh.

Sweet Is The Infant's Waking Smile, And Sweet The Old Man's Rest-- But Middle Age By No Fond Wile, No Soothing Calm Is Blest.

The Trivial Round, The Common Task,would Furnish All We Ought To Ask.

When The Shore Is Won At Last, Who Will Count The Billow Past?