So lit as with a sunrise, that we could only say, She is the morning-glory true, and her poor types are they.

So always from that happy time we called her by their name,

And very fitting did it seem, for, sure as morning

came,

Behind her cradle-bars she smiled to catch the first

faint ray,

As from the trellis smiles the flower and opens to the

day.

But not so beautiful they rear their airy cups of blue, As turned her sweet eyes to the light brimmed with sleep's tender dew;

And not so close their tendrils fine round their supports are thrown,

As those dear arms whose outstretched plea clasped all hearts to her own.

We used to think how she had come, even as comes

the flower,

The last and perfect added gift to crown love's morn

ing hour,

And how in her was imaged forth the love we could

not say,

As on the little dew-drops round shines back the heart of day.

We never could have thought, O God, that she must wither up,

Almost before a day was flown, like the morningglory'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.

O 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.

TO A CHILD.

WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate, and merry eye,

And arm and shoulders round and sleek,
And soft and fair,- thou urchin sly?

What boots it who, with sweet caresses,
First called thee his, or squire, or hind?
Since thou, in every wight that passes,

Dost now a friendly playmate find.

Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning,

As fringed eyelids rise and fall,

Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,"T is infantine coquetry all!

But far afield thou hast not flown:

With mocks and threats, half lisped, half spoken,

I feel thee pulling at my gown,

Of right good-will thy simple token.

And thou must laugh and wrestle too, -
A mimic warfare with me waging:

To make, as wily lovers do,

Thine after-kindness more engaging!

The wilding rose sweet as thyself,

And new-crop daisies, are thy treasures;
I'd gladly part with worldly pelf,
To taste again thy youthful pleasures.

But yet, for all thy merry look,

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,

The weary spell of horn-book thumbing.

Well, let it be! Through weal and woe,
Thou know'st not now thy future range:
Life is a motley, shifting show,-

And thou, a thing of hope and change.

BUT ah! what light and little things

Are childhood's woes: they break no rest;
Like dew-drops on the skylark's wings,
Gone in a moment, when she springs

To meet the air with open breast.

HARRY'S LETTER.

DEAR BILL:·

HERE I am in Lincolnshire. Now I'll tell you what I want. I want you to come down here for the holidays. Don't be afraid. Ask your sister to ask your mother to ask your

come. It's only ninety miles.

father to let you If you're out of