Page:Poems for Children Sigourney 1836.pdf/44



Unless my mother guides my hand, I cannot write, you know. But such a tide of tender thought Does round your image flow, I fain must send one simple scroll With this sweet book about the Soul.

'Tis written by a learned man, And though the size is small, Its subject is a boundless one, And much concerns us all, Because the soul can ne'er decay, When this frail body fades away.

I've never seen this volume's power At all surpast, my dear, For making hidden mysteries plain, And abstract matters clear, Pray, let it have the highest place, Your chosen library to grace.