Poor little girls! 'twas very sad;
They were too young to write;
And no one guessed the quiet tears
Poor Annie shed at night.
Among our Sabbath-scholars soon
I learned to watch her face;
A quiet sadness on her brow
I fancied I could trace.
One summer's morning, Sabbath peace
Filled all the sunny air,
And all within God's house was hushed,
To wait the opening prayer;
When up the aisle a neighbour came,
With hushed but hasty tread;
And by the hand with kindly care
A little girl he led.
A sudden cry ran through the church,
A cry of rapture wild;
And starting from her seat we saw
Our quiet English child.
"Sister! my sister!" was the cry
That through the silence rung,
As round the little stranger's neck
Her eager arms she flung.
And tears and kisses mingling fast,
She pressed on lip and cheek;
For silent tears can sometimes tell
What words are poor to speak.
Then soft o'er cheek, and brow, and hair,
Her trembling fingers crept;
Then heart to heart, and cheek to cheek,
Those loving sisters wept.
Nor they alone, for strong men sobbed;
Women stood weeping by;
And little ones looked up amazed,
And asked what made them cry.
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