TO LAURA W

TWO YEARS OF AGE.

BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee,

Child of the sunny brow

Bright as the dream flung over thee-
By all that meets thee now.
Thy heart is beating joyously,
Thy voice is like a bird's-
And sweetly breaks the melody
Of thy imperfect words.

I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout.

I would that thou might'st ever be

As beautiful as now,—

!

то LAURA W

That time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow:

I would life were "all poetry"

To gentle measure set,

That nought but chasten'd melody
Might stain thy eye of jet—

Nor one discordant note be spoken,
Till God the cunning harp hath broken.

I would but deeper things than these
With woman's lot are wove :
Wrought of intenser sympathies,
And nerv'd by purest love—
By the strong spirit's discipline,

By the fierce wrong forgiven,
By all that wrings the heart of sin,
Is woman won to Heaven.

"Her lot is on thee," lovely child-
God keep thy spirit undefiled!

I fear thy gentle loveliness,
Thy witching tone and air,

Thine eye's beseeching earnestness

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May be to thee a snare.

The silver stars may purely shine,
The water's taintless flow-

But they who kneel at woman's shrine,
Breathe on it as they bow-

Ye may fling back the gift again,

But the crushed flower will leave a stain.

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child? Keep thee as thou art now?

Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,

The world is but a broken reed,

And life grows early dim

Who shall be near thee in thy need,

To lead thee up-to Him?

He, who himself was "undefiled?"

With him, we trust thee, beautiful child!

ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL LEADING HER BLIND

MOTHER THROUGH THE WOOD.

THE green leaves as we pass

Lay their light fingers on thee unaware,

And by thy side the hazels cluster fair,

And the low forest-grass

Grows green and silken where the wood-paths windAlas! for thee, sweet mother! thou art blind!

And nature is all bright;

And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn,
Like folded curtains from the day are drawn;
And evening's purple light

Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky

Alas! sweet mother! for thy clouded eye!

The moon's new silver shell

Trembles above thee, and the stars float up,
In the blue air, and the rich tulip's cup
Is pencill'd passing well,

And the swift birds on glorious pinions flee-
Alas! sweet mother! that thou canst not see!

And the kind looks of friends

Peruse the sad expression in thy face,
And the child stops amid his bounding race,
And the tall stripling bends

Low to thine ear with duty unforgot

Alas! sweet mother! that thou seest them not!

But thou canst hear! and love

May richly on a human tone be pour'd,
And the least cadence of a whisper'd word
A daughter's love may prove―

And while I speak thou knowst if I smile,
Albeit thou canst not see my face the while!

Yes, thou canst hear! and He

Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung,