A rainbow in the sky;
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So let it be when I grow old,
Or let me die.
Wordsworth.
The angel that takes care of the tender lambs and sprinkles dew upon the flowers in the still night, take care of thee, dear child, and let no evil come to thy tender years. Fair child! when I gaze into thy soft blue eyes my childhood returns, like a bright vision, and I think of the time, long since past, when every sight and every sound in nature gave to me such sweet delight, and all was so fair and beautiful. I fancy I hear thy gentle voice breathing forth thy joy, in sweet and happy words, such as little children are wont to use when they first begin to look up into the blue sky, to gaze upon the rainbow, or at the bright, fleecy clouds that float over the moon. The bright sun, the moon, and the stars—the murmuring rivulet—the broad ocean, heaving to and fro in the sunlight—the pealing thunder, and the storm—the quiet glen, where I listened to the busy hum of the insects, the joyous song of the birds, as they sung in the trees or flew from spray to spray, the odor of fresh flowers—all filled my breast with heavenly love and peace; and when I look up into thy face, dear child, my soul returns to join you, and I forget the present, and live, for a time, only in the past.
The little maid you see gazing at the great dragon-fly, is the foster child of a good shepherd; she has risen with the morning sun, and has come forth into the silent wood, to lift up her little voice, with the birds, in songs of praise and thanksgiving to the Creator, and to ask His blessing on all that lives. The little lamb by her side is the companion of all her walks; she gives it fresh grass to eat, with her own hand, and water from the clear stream that flows rippling beneath the green trees. She makes garlands of the choicest flowers, and hangs them upon his neck. She loves the flowers, the green grass, and the rippling stream. She loves to walk with her lamb in the still woods, and listen to the hum of the little insects that dwell there. She is Nature’s happy child, and her discourses are with its wonders. It is in the quiet dell, by the softly murmuring stream, that she loves most to stay; she is talking now with that large dragon-fly; and if a picture could speak, we should hear her say, in the gentlest accents in the world: