"Child of Genius! in thine eyes,
I can see thy soul arise;
All the poetry of feeling,
In their changeful depths revealing."
The first-born! who can define the world of sensations and emotions that spring into existence at that magic word. Like every other deep impulse of the soul, language is powerless to express it imagination in its loftiest range comes far short of reality. Others may come to share an equal love,—none to excite the same novelty of emotion. The numerous little arts and feats of wisdom common to all children then force themselves on the observation of the parents for the first time. And though those little hands may be motionless in death, and those little lips never more rejoice their ears with their sweet music, that inanimate form has bequeathed an immortal legacy from Heaven,—a new link in the golden chain of the affections.
Rosalind, perhaps, was not a child of remarkable talent in any given direction, but she was certainly an original child. She neither resembled other children, nor imitated herself. She was constantly unfolding some new trait of character, and presenting herself in a new aspect. She inherited her father's physical activity and perseverance, and com-
