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.
The soul detects some passing token,
Some emblem of a brighter world,

And, with its shell of clay unbroken,
Its shining pinions are unfurl'd,
And, like a blessed dream,
Phantoms, apparell'd from the sky,

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 birds are silent, and so is the bee;

The sun is creeping up steeple and tree;
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves,
And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves,
Twilight gathers, and day is done—
How hast thou spent it-restless one!

Playing? But what hast thou done beside
To tell thy mother at even tide?

What promise of morn is left unbroken?

What kind word to thy playmate spoken?
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?
How with thy faults has duty striven?
What hast thou learned by field and hill,

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.
If thine open hand hath reliev'd distress
If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness—
If thou hast forgiven the sore offence,
And humbled thy heart with penitence-
If Nature's voices have spoken to thee
With their holy meanings eloquently—
If every creature hath won thy love,

From the creeping worm to the brooding dove,
If never a sad, low-spoken word

Hath plead with thy human heart unheard-
Then, when the night steals on as now,

It will bring relief to thine aching brow,
And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest,
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.

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,
Nor shuts the flower its fragrant cells,
Nor sleeps the fountain's wealth, I ween,
For ever in its sparry wells-

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