| CHILD. |
| Where, mother, where have the fire-flies been All the day long, that their light was not seen? |
| MOTHER. |
| They've been 'mong the flowers and flown through the air, But could not be seen—for the sunshine was there. And thus, little girl, in thy morning's first light, There are many things hid from thy mind's dazzled sight, Which the ev'ning of life will too clearly reveal, And teach thee to see—or, it may be, to feel. |
| CHILD. |
| Where, mother, where will the fire-flies go When the chilling snows fall and the winter winds blow? |
| MOTHER. |
| The tempest o'ercomes them, but cannot destroy: For the spring time awakes them to sunshine and joy. And thus, little girl, when life's seasons are o'er, And thy joys and thy hopes and thy griefs are no more, May'st thou rise from death's slumbers to high worlds of light, Where all things are joyous, and all things are bright. |
IMOGENE.
LINES
Written on one of the blank leaves of a book sent to a friend in England.
| As he who sails afar on southern seas, Catches rich odor on the evening breeze, Turns to the shore whence comes the perfum'd air, And knows, though all unseen, some flower is there— Thus, when o'er ocean's wave these pages greet Thine eye, with many a line from minstrel sweet, Think of Virginia's clime far off and fair, And know, though all unseen, a friend is there |
IMOGENE.