Thou’rt like a gentle poet’s thought, By Nature’s simplest lessons taught, Reclining on old moss-grown trees, Communing with the whisp’ring breeze. Like timid natures, that conceal What others carelessly reveal; Reserving for a chosen few Their wealth of feeling, pure and true. Like loving hearts, that ne’er grow old, Through autumn’s change, or winter’s cold; Preserving some sweet flowers, that lie ’Neath withered leaves of years gone by. At sight of thee a troop upsprings Of simple, pure, and lovely things; But half thou sayest to my heart, I find no language to impart. THE CATHOLIC AND THE QUAKER. For _thee_, the priestly rite and prayer And holy day, and solemn psalm; For _me_, the silent reverence, where My brethren gather, slow and calm. J. G. WHITTIER. It was one of Ireland’s greenest lanes that wound its way down to a rippling brook, in the rear of Friend Goodman’s house. And there, by a mound of rocks that dipped their mossy feet in the rivulet, Friend Goodman walked slowly, watching for his little daughter, who had been spending the day with some children in the neighbourhood. Presently, the small maiden came jumping along, with her bonnet thrown back, and the edges of her soft brown ringlets luminous in the rays of the setting sun. Those pretty curls were not Quakerly; but Nature, who pays no more attention to the regulations of Elders, than she does to the edicts of Bishops, would have it so. At the slightest breath of moisture, the silky hair rolled itself into spirals, and clustered round her pure white forehead, as if it loved the nestling-place. Jumping, likewise, was not a Quakerly proceeding. But little Alice, usually staid and demure, in imitation of those around her, had met with a new companion, whose temperament was more mercurial than her own, and she was yielding to its magnetic influence. Camillo Campbell, a boy of six years, was the grandson of an Italian lady, who had married an Irish absentee, resident in Florence. Her descendants had lately come to Ireland, and taken possession of estates in the immediate neighbourhood of Friend Goodman, where little Camillo’s foreign complexion, lively temperament, and graceful broken language, rendered him an object of very great interest, especially among the children. He it was with whom little Alice was skipping through the green lane, bright and free as the wind and sunshine that played among her curls. As the sober father watched their innocent gambols, he felt his own pulses quicken, and his motions involuntarily became more rapid and elastic than usual. The little girl came nestling up to his side, and rubbed her head upon his arm, like a petted kitten. Camillo peeped roguishly from behind the mossy rocks, kissed his hand to her, and ran off, hopping first on one foot and then on the other.