—When next we meet, perchance, the trace
Of age shall tint thy tottering base,
And I, with added plainness show
The wrinkled lines that cares bestow,
But Nature, still serene and fair,
No thread of silver in her hair,
No furrow'd mark on brow or cheek,
The same rich dialect shall speak,
With silent finger upward pointing,
And forehead pure with Heaven's anointing,
And smile more eloquent than speech,
The lessons of her Sire shall teach.
BIRTH-DAY VERSES TO A LITTLE GIRL.
I do bethink me of a feeble babe,
To whom the gift of life did seem a toil
It trembled to take up, and of the care
That tireless nurtur'd her by night and day,
When it would seem as if the fainting breath
Must leave her bosom, and her fair blue eye
Sank 'neath its lids, like some crushed violet.
—Six winters came, and now that self-same babe
Wins with her needle, the appointed length
Of her light task, and learns with patient zeal
The daily lesson, tracing on her map
All climes and regions of the peopled earth.
With tiny hand, she guides the writer's quill,
To grave those lines through which the soul doth speak,
