Some child had drawn it from her hand
To dabble in the sunny spring,
And then, the thoughtless little thing,
Had left it lying on the rand.
And as I saw the symbols there
Of budding life and blossoming spring,
Arose and from my heart took wing
To heaven a brief and heartfelt prayer:
O little child, whoe’er thou art,
And in whatever station set,
Be modest, like the violet,
And act in life an earnest part,
That, as the streamlet by the sun
Is gently lifted to the skies,
Thy soul may unto heaven arise
Whene’er its earthly course is run.
THE MAGIC BOW.
(From the French of Charles Cros.)
Rippling low to her dainty feet,
Tress with tress did mingle and meet,
Yellow as ripening August wheat.
Her voice had an eerie melody,
Like that of an angel or a fay.
Beneath dusk lashes her eyes shone gray.
He by no rival swain set store,
As valleys through, or mountains o’er,
The maid upon his steed he bore.
For all the land had held not one
That she in her pride would look upon
To the day she met him, and was undone.