A poem by Edward Smyth Jones

I call thee angel of this earth,
For angel true thou art
In noble deeds and sterling worth
And sympathetic heart.
I, therefore, seek none from afar
For what they might have been,
But sing the praise of those which are
That dwell on earth with men.

For when man was a tottling wee,
Snug nestling on thy breast,
Or sporting gay upon thy knee,
Oh, thou who lovest him best;
An overflowing stream of love,
Sprung at his very birth,
And made thee gentle as a dove,
Fair angel of this earth.

Thou cheerest ever blithesome youth
With songs and fervent prayers,
And fillest heart with love and truth
A store for future cares.
Thou lead'st him safely in his prime,
True guide of every stage,
And then at last, as fades the time,
Thou comfortest his age.

Like as the sunshine after rain,
Far chasing 'way the mist,
Thou soothest human grief and pain,
Fleet messenger of bliss.
In battles where the sword and shield
Full lay the mighty low,
Thou hov'rest ever o'er the field,
To ease life's ebb and flow!

Thou standest, ever standest near,
Before man's waning eyes,
An angel true to him more dear
Than all beyond the skies!
No fabled sprites of chants and creeds,
Nor myths of bygone years,
For thou suppliest all his needs
And wip'st his briny tears.

So, if he quail in desert waste
Or toss life's stormy sea,
He turns his tear-stained eye in haste
For one fond glimpse of thee.
He longs to hide beneath thy wing,
And nestle on thy breast;
He lists to hear thee softly sing
Him into peaceful rest!

Oh, sing aloud Mt. Zion's songs,
To cheer each languid heart;
For now some feeble spirit longs
Thy blessings to impart.
And thus thou keepest the Master's will,
And showest all thy worth,
Through loving kindness thou art still
The angel of this earth!

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