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By a pale, sick child was a treasure brought, The smile of patient trust, For disease had a precious moral wrought, And quiet and pure was her chasten'd thought, As a pearl by the rude sea nursed.

An infant rose from its cradle-bed, And clung to the mother's breast, But soon to the knee of its sire it sped— Love was its gift—and the angels said That the baby's gift was best.

Then the father spake, with a grateful air, Of the God whom his youth had known; And the mother's sigh of tender care Went up in the shape of a winged prayer, And was heard before the Throne.