And when, in a strange, unlovèd clime,
  One other babe was given,
With a holy light in her pure clear eyes,
  As if through them you gazed on heaven,

She thought that the three who went before
  Up the angels' shining track,
Had pray'd to the Great and Pitiful,
  Who sent one cherub back.

And thence that poor, o'ergrievèd heart,
  Through sorrows, alas! not few,
Thought of her, not alone as a child,
  But a comforting angel too.

"My Bell, I leave thee a little while;
  Wilt still sit here and play?
I must go and take to poor old Jane
   The cap I have made to-day."

''She is sick with fever; and if thou went,
  Thou, too, mightst ail and pine:
"O God!" she murmurs, "preserve this child—
   This choicest gift of Thine!"

She looks back fondly twice or thrice
   From the short trim garden walk;
And Bell nods gaily, prattling on
   Her sweet, low baby-talk.

Now the doll is laid to go to sleep
  On the mother's Sunday plaid:
With hat in hand, at the cottage door
  Pauseth the little maid.

The parrot calls; on tiptoe perch'd,
  Bell peeps within the cage:
"Now, Polly dear, don't bite my hand,
   Nor scream in such a rage.

"I'll fetch you nice fresh bread to eat,
  And put some sugar on;
And, see! this bunch of wattle-leaves
   Will shade you from the sun.

"There, Polly! Now I'll wash your cup,
  And fill it up anew
With water from the clearest pool
  The river runneth through.

"I know dear mother bade me stay
   Here, where my dolls I nursed;
But then she did not think that you,
   Dear Polly, were athirst.

"And mother never lets you pine
  For food when she is by;
She loves and cares for everything,—
   And so, my Poll, should I.

"I'll only just run down and fill
   Your cup with water bright;
And, if dear mother comes the while,
   I shall be close in sight."

And, tripping lightly off, she pass'd
  Down that short garden walk,
Where the wistful mother had heard last
  The low, sweet baby-talk.

Then, brushing through the branching ferns,
   Where a path, like a winding thread
In a garden maze, all over-grown,
   Down to the river led.

The tiny cup she fill'd, and set
  It safe beneath a tree,
Where happy birds were fluttering
   And singing in their glee.

Bright flowers, fringing all the banks,
  And trailing creepers, made,
Such tempting beauty, little Bell
  Her homeward walk delay'd.

A giant tree, long prostrate lain,
   Bridged the small stream across,
Cover'd all o'er with creeping ferns,
   Lichens, and cushion'd moss.

And, sitting on the huge old trunk,
  Above the rippling brook,
Bell watch'd the silvery fish at play,
  With long, delighted look.

A butterfly, with glorious wings,
  Along the sunshine came;
And golden beetles, gleaming bright,
  Like jewels turn'd to flame.

And Bell, beguil'd, went wandering on,
  Chasing now one, now other,
Forgot alike the parrot's thirst,
  And the bidding of her mother.

Then cluster'd lilies in a bunch,
  With blossoms deep and blue,
She ties up lightly with the string
  Pull'd from one tiny shoe.

And on, on, on, she rambles, far
   Through the forest deep and still;
And then up steep and rocky ways,
   Over a craggy hill.

Then, weary grown, her little hands
  The gather'd flowers let fall;
And coming night, and terrors vague,
  The baby-heart appal.

"Mother!" No mother hears the cry.
  She kneels, and says her prayers:
"Bless father—mother—for His sake!
  And, O, bless Bell, for theirs!

"Dear God, O lead me home to them!
  I'm cold and frighten'd here:
Though sinful, wicked in Thy sight,
   They hold me very dear!"

On, on again, with faltering step,
  The small feet slowly pass,
Through rushy swamp, and bramble-scrub,
  And tall brown tussock-grass.

Over long, desolate, heathy flats,
  And prickly thickets too;
And now the fainting child has lost
  The little untied shoe.

On, on, though wearily and slow,
   Footsore, and torn, and weak:
"Mother!"—but very faint and low
   That dear name can she speak.

"Father! I hear the bittern boom,
  And the mope-hawk's doleful cry.
I've heard them oft, nor fear'd, at home,—
   But then I had thee nigh.