It is over-but many and many a year So, through every mortal change and care, LINES TO THE MEMORY OF H. F., WHO DIED AGED EIGHT YEARS. M. R. A MORNING dewdrop filled a daisy's cup So did the virtues of this little child, Make her in outward form appear more fair; CHILDHOOD. MISS WILLIAMS. How beautiful is childhood!-a new world And every tone, of stream, or bee, or bird Its trust is calm as summer moonlit sea; And bounding onward, strengthening in their course, Ask kindliest care to guide, yet not turn back their force. Who knoweth not how soon the feeble child The sorrow it has scarcely learnt to feel; How will the joyous one its laugh restrain, To smooth with its small hands the couch of care or pain! How many a blight must such endure erewhile Their glowing sensibilities are quelled; How scan the world's dull caution and its guile, How shrink beneath the frown of hate and scorn, Ere from a source so pure, hatred and wrong are born! The work of education, hour by hour, Or makes its life an everlasting hymn Of gratitude, and love, and welcome praise to Him. Childhood, I love thee !-love thee for their sake tide; Thou hast their voice, thou their forms dost take; Thou still art prone to love and to confide; Thou bringest me sweet pictures of the past, Childhood, I love thee !—for the hidden store Of pure devotion, true philanthropy, Which wait development, though yet bound up, Childhood, I love thee! for His sake who brought To image that His spirit would approve ; unseen. O bud of promise! beautiful estate,Humanity undimmed and undefiled! If I were called to name the truly great, Should I like Jesus clasp a little child? What do earth's elder-born ones owe to thee, Who waitest at their hands so much thy destiny! O world! thou stern instructor, what wilt thou Make of the bounding heart, the unfolding mind? Must thy cold policy the spirit bow The living temple be to thee consigned ? Will not thy votaries pause, ere they deface The image of their God, in this its dwelling-place? DELIGHTED Soul! that in thy new abode Who would believe thou wert so far from home? That comely form, wherein thy thoughts are pent, A pliable and pleasant instrument, Thou hast not spent as yet thy little store With many a placid dream and causeless smile. |