"And he smiled, though they were fading; One by one their leaves were shed; 'Such bright things could never perish, They would bloom again,' he said. When the next day's sun had risen Child and flowers both were dead.

"Know, dear little one! our Father
Will no gentle deed disdain:
Love on the cold earth beginning
Lives divine in Heaven again,
While the angel hearts that beat there
Still all tender thoughts retain."

So the angel ceased, and gently
O'er his little burthen leant;
While the child gazed from the shining,
Loving eyes that o'er him bent,
To the blooming roses by him,
Wondering what that mystery meant.

Thus the radiant angel answered,
And with tender meaning smiled:
"Ere your childlike, loving spirit,
Sin and the hard world defiled,
God has given me leave to seek you, —
I was once that little child!"

In the church-yard of that city
Rose a tomb of marble rare,
Decked, as soon as Spring awakened,
With her buds and blossoms fair, -

And a humble grave beside it,
No one knew who rested there.

ECHOES.

TILL the angel stars are shining,
Still the rippling waters flow,
But the angel-voice is silent
That I heard so long ago.

Hark! the echoes murmur low,
Long ago!

Still the wood is dim and lonely,
Still the plashing fountains play,
But the past and all its beauty,
Whither has it fled away?
Hark! the mournful echoes say,
Fled away!

Still the bird of night complaineth,
(Now, indeed, her song is pain,)
Visions of my happy hours,

Do I call and call in vain ?
Hark! the echoes cry again,

All in vain!

Cease, O echoes, mournful echoes!
Once I loved your voices well;
Now my heart is sick and weary.
Days of old, a long farewell!
Hark! the echoes sad and dreary
Cry farewell, farewell!

A FALSE GENIUS.

SEE a Spirit by thy side,
Purple-winged and eagle-eyed,
Looking like a heavenly guide.

Though he seem so bright and fair,
Ere thou trust his proffered care,
Pause a little, and beware!

If he bid thee dwell apart,
Tending some ideal smart
In a sick and coward heart;

In self-worship wrapped alone, Dreaming thy poor griefs are grown More than other men have known;

Dwelling in some cloudy sphere, Though God's work is waiting here, And God deigneth to be near;

If his torch's crimson glare
Show thee evil everywhere,

Tainting all the wholesome air ;

While with strange distorted choice,

Still disdaining to rejoice,

Thou wilt hear a wailing voice;

If a simple, humble heart
Seem to thee a meaner part
Than thy noblest aim and art;

If he bid thee bow before
Crowned Mind and nothing more,
The great idol men adore;

And with starry veil enfold
Sin, the trailing serpent old,

Till his scales shine out like gold;

Though his words seem true and wise,

Soul, I say to thee, Arise,

He is a Demon in disguise!

MY PICTURE.

TAND this way-more near the win-
dow-

By my desk-you see the light
Falling on my picture better-

Thus I see it while I write !

Who the head may be I know not,
But it has a student air;

With a look half sad, half stately,

Grave sweet eyes and flowing hair.

Little care I who the painter,

How obscure a name he bore;

Nor, when some have named Velasquez,
Did I value it the more.

As it is, I would not give it
For the rarest piece of art;
It has dwelt with me, and listened
To the secrets of my heart.

Many a time, when to my garret,
Weary, I returned at night,
It has seemed to look a welcome
That has made my poor room bright.

Many a time, when ill and sleepless,
I have watched the quivering gleam
Of my lamp upon that picture,
Till it faded in my dream.

When dark days have come, and friendship
Worthless seemed, and life in vain,
That bright friendly smile has sent me
Boldly to my task again.

Sometimes when hard need has pressed me
To bow down where I despise,

I have read stern words of counsel
In those sad, reproachful eyes.

Nothing that my brain imagined,

Or my weary hand has wrought,

But it watched the dim Idea

Spring forth into armèd Thought.