My fa­ther raised his trem­bling hand,
And placed it on my head:
God’s bless­ing be on thee, my son!
Most ten­der­ly he said.

He died, and left no gems nor gold,
But still was I his heir—
For that rich bless­ing which he gave
Became a for­tune rare.

And in my day of wea­ry toil
To earn my dai­ly bread,
It glad­dens me in thought to feel
His hand up­on my head.

Though in­fant tongues to me have said
Dear fa­ther! oft since then,
Yet when I bring that scene to mind,
I’m but a child again.