BLOWING BUBBLES.
It was a lovely picture! A young boy,
Of scarce five summers, on a terrace stood,
Which overlooked a region of sweet flowers,
As fresh and blooming as his own bright cheeks;
While from a pipe, wiled from his ancient nurse
With many a kiss, the rosy urchin blew
Those air-created globes, which, as they soared
Through the blue space, caught the gay tints of morn.
Buoyant and bright as youthful hopes they seemed,
And radiant as those visioned forms of bliss
That hover in the dreams of innocence.
I watched the rapturous gaze of that young boy,
And heard his joyous shout, as rising high
Upon the breeze, those fragile orbs were borne.
But when they sank, and vanished from his view,
A cloud of sadness came o’er his fair brow.
This picture read a lesson to my heart.
Oh—how like these, thought I, are half the hopes
And pleasures of this life. No sooner do
They smile upon our view—than they are gone!
——