I saw a child some four years old, Along a meadow stray; Alone she went--unchecked--untold-- Her home not far away. She gazed around on earth and sky-- Now paused, and now proceeded; Hill, valley, wood,--she passed them by, Unmarked, perchance unheeded. And now gay groups of roses bright, In circling thickets bound her-- Yet on she went with footsteps light, Still gazing all around her. And now she paused, and now she stooped, And plucked a little flower-- A simple daisy 'twas, that drooped Within a rosy bower. The child did kiss the little gem, And to her bosom pressed it; And there she placed the fragile stem, And with soft words caressed it. I love to read a lesson true, From nature's open book-- And oft I learn a lesson new, From childhood's careless look. Children are simple--loving--true; 'Tis Heaven that made them so; And would you teach them--be so too-- And stoop to what they know. Begin with simple lessons--things On which they love to look: Flowers, pebbles, insects, birds on wings-- These are God's spelling-book. And children know His A, B, C, As bees where flowers are set: Would'st thou a skilful teacher be?-- Learn, then, this alphabet. From leaf to leaf, from page to page, Guide thou thy pupil's look, And when he says, with aspect sage, "Who made this wondrous book?" Point thou with reverent gaze to heaven, And kneel in earnest prayer, That lessons thou hast humbly given, May lead thy pupil there. Perennials. Life is a journey, and its fairest flowers Lie in our path beneath pride's trampling feet; Oh, let us stoop to virtue's humble bowers, And gather those, which, faded, still are sweet. These way-side blossoms amulets are of price; They lead to pleasure, yet from dangers warn;-- Turn toil to bliss, this earth to Paradise, And sunset death to heaven's eternal morn. A good deed done hath memory's blest perfume,-- A day of self-forgetfulness, all given To holy charity, hath perennial bloom That goes, undrooping, up from earth to heaven. Forgiveness, too, will flourish in the skies-- Justice, transplanted thither, yields fair fruit; And if repentance, borne to heaven, dies, 'Tis that no tears are there to wet its root. To a Lady who had been Singing. The spirit-harp within the breast A spirit's touch alone can know,-- Yet thine the power to wake its rest, And bid its echoing numbers flow. Yes,--and thy minstrel art the while, Can blend the tones of weal and we, So archly, that the heart may smile, Though bright, unbidden tear-drops flow.