Our guileless child's-sport long was hushed
In memory's tomb, like some old lay;
And yet across my mind it rushed
With pristine force the other day.
The New-Poetic Catholics
In every point its aptness fix!
SONGS.
Songs are like painted window-panes!
In darkness wrapped the church remains,
If from the market-place we view it;
Thus sees the ignoramus through it.
No wonder that he deems it tame,—
And all his life 'twill be the same.
But let us now inside repair,
And greet the holy chapel there!
At once the whole seems clear and bright,
Each ornament is bathed in light,
And fraught with meaning to the sight.
God's children! thus your fortune prize,
Be edified, and feast your eyes!
A PARABLE.
I picked a rustic nosegay lately,
And bore it homewards, musing greatly;
When, heated by my hand, I found
The heads all drooping toward the ground.
I placed them in a well-cooled glass,
And what a wonder came to pass!
The heads soon raised themselves once more,
