And sometimes it is even so! The spirit ripens in the germ; The new-seal'd fountains overflow, The bright wings tremble in the worm. And, with its shell of clay unbroken, Athwart its vision gleam As if the light of Heaven had touched its gifted eye. 'Tis strange how childhood's simple words Interpret Nature's mystic book How it will listen to the birds, Or ponder on the running brook, As if its spirit fed. And strange that we remember not, Who fill its eye, and weave its lot, How lightly it were led Back to the home which it has scarce forgot. ON THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED OF PLAY." TIRED of play! Tired of play! What hast thou done this livelong day? The sun is creeping up steeple and tree; Playing? But what hast thou done beside What promise of morn is left unbroken? What kind word to thy playmate spoken? By greenwood path, and by singing rill? There will come an eve to a longer day, That will find thee tired—but not of play! And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now, With drooping limbs and an aching brow, And wish the shadows would faster creep, And long to go to thy quiet sleep. Well were it then if thine aching brow Were as free from sin and shame as now! Well for thee, if thy lip could tell A tale like this, of a day spent well. From the creeping worm to the brooding dove, Hath plead with thy human heart unheard- It will bring relief to thine aching brow, TO A FACE BELOVED. The music of the waken'd lyre Dies not upon the quivering strings, Nor burns alone the minstrel's fire Upon the lip that trembling sings; Nor shines the moon in heaven unseen, The spells of the enchanter lie Not on his own lone heart-his own rapt ear and eye. I look upon a face as fair As ever made a lip of heaven |