We never could have thought, O God,
That she must wither up, Almost before a day was flown,
Like the morning-glory's cup; We never thought to see her droop
Her fair and noble head, Till she lay stretched before our eyes,
Wilted, and cold, and dead!
The morning-glory's blossoming
Will soon be coming round,— We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves
Upspringing from the ground; The tender things the winter killed
Renew again their birth, But the glory of our morning
Has passed away from earth.
Earth! in vain our aching eyes
Stretch over thy green plain! Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air,
Her spirit to sustain; But up in groves of Paradise
Full surely we shall see Our morning-glory beautiful
Twine round our dear Lord's knee.
MARIA WHITE LOWELL.
A widow—she had only one!
A puny and decrepit son;
But, day and night, Though fretful oft, and weak and small,
A loving child, he was her all—
The Widow's Mite.
The Widow's Mite—ay, so sustained,
She battled onward, nor complained,
Though friends were fewer: And while she toiled for daily fare,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.
I saw her then,—and now I see
That, though resigned and cheerful, she
Has sorrowed much: She has, He gave it tenderly,
Much faith; and carefully laid by,
The little crutch.
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.