* * * * *
MY TRUNDLE BED.
As I rummaged through the attic,
List'ning to the falling rain,
As it pattered on the shingles
And against the window pane,
Peeping over chests and boxes,
Which with dust were thickly spread,
Saw I in the farthest corner
What was once my trundle bed.
So I drew it from the recess,
Where it had remained so long,
Hearing all the while the music
Of my mother's voice in song,
As she sung in sweetest accents,
What I since have often read--
"Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed"
As I listened, recollections,
That I thought had been forgot,
Came with all the gush of memory,
Rushing, thronging to the spot;
And I wandered back to childhood,
To those merry days of yore,
When I knelt beside my mother,
By this bed upon the floor.
Then it was with hands so gently
Placed upon my infant head,
That she taught my lips to utter
Carefully the words she said;
Never can they be forgotten,
Deep are they in mem'ry riven--
"Hallowed be thy name, O Father!
Father! thou who art in heaven.
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