And now the petal, twisted tight,
Above the calyx peers to sight
With apex tipped with purple, bright
  As if the rainbow dyed it. 
While on the air it vacillates,
Its owner’s bosom palpitates
To see it open, as he waits
  Impatient close beside it.

Another rising sun has thrown
Its beams upon the vine, and shown
The splendid Morning-Glory blown,
  As if some little fairy,
When early from his couch he went,
On some ethereal journey bent,
Had there inverted left his tent
  Of purple, high and airy.

And many a fair and shining flower
As bright as this adorned the bower,
Displayed like jewels in an hour,
  Where’er the vine was clinging. 
As each corolla lost its twist,
The zephyr fanned, the sunbeam kissed
The little vase of amethyst;
  And round it birds were singing.

And now the little boy comes out
To see his vine.  He gives a shout,
And sings and laughs, and jumps about
  Like one two-thirds demented. 
His little playmates, one, two, three,
Come round the beauteous vine to see,
And each cries, “Give a flower to me,
  And I’ll go off contented.”

But “No,” the selfish owner cried,
And pushed his comrades all aside,
While walking round his bower with pride,
  “Not one of you shall sever
A floweret from the stem so gay;
I own them, not to give away! 
I’ll come to see them every day;
  And keep them mine for ever!”

So, when at noon from school he came,
To see his vine was first his aim: 
But oh! his feelings who can name,
  As mute he stood and eyed it? 
For not a flower could he behold,
While each corolla, inward rolled,
Appeared as shrivelled, dead, and old
  As if a fire had dried it.

“Alas!” the selfish owner said,
“My Glories——­oh! they all are dead! 
And all my little friends have fled
  Aggrieved! for I’ve abused them. 
They’ll keep away, and but deride
My sorrow, when they hear my pride
Is gone;—­that quick the pleasures died
  Which rudely I refused them!”

=The Old Cotter and his Cow=

  My good old Cow,
  I scarce know how
Again we’ve wintered over;
  With my scant fare,
  And thine so spare—­
No dainty dish, nor clover!

  We both were old,
  And keen the cold;
While poorly housed we found us;
  And by the blast
  That, whistling, passed,
The snows were sifted round us.

  While, many a day. 
  Few locks of hay
Were most thy crib presented,
  A patient Cow,
  And kind wast thou,
And with thy mite contented.

  But though the storms
  Have chilled our forms,
And we’ve been pinched together,
  The dark, blue day
  Is passed away;
We’ve reached the warm spring weather!

  The bounteous earth
  Is shooting forth
Her grass and flowers so gayly;
  Thou now canst feed
  Along the mead,
While food is growing daily.