Children are simple—­loving—­true;
      ’Tis Heaven that made them so;
    And would you teach them—­be so too—­
      And stoop to what they know.

    Begin with simple lessons—­things
      On which they love to look: 
    Flowers, pebbles, insects, birds on wings—­
      These are God’s spelling-book.

    And children know His A, B, C,
      As bees where flowers are set: 
    Would’st thou a skilful teacher be?—­
      Learn, then, this alphabet.

    From leaf to leaf, from page to page,
      Guide thou thy pupil’s look,
    And when he says, with aspect sage,
      “Who made this wondrous book?”

    Point thou with reverent gaze to heaven,
      And kneel in earnest prayer,
    That lessons thou hast humbly given,
      May lead thy pupil there.

Perennials.

    Life is a journey, and its fairest flowers
      Lie in our path beneath pride’s trampling feet;
    Oh, let us stoop to virtue’s humble bowers,
      And gather those, which, faded, still are sweet.

    These way-side blossoms amulets are of price;
      They lead to pleasure, yet from dangers warn;—­
    Turn toil to bliss, this earth to Paradise,
      And sunset death to heaven’s eternal morn.

    A good deed done hath memory’s blest perfume,—­
      A day of self-forgetfulness, all given
    To holy charity, hath perennial bloom
      That goes, undrooping, up from earth to heaven.

    Forgiveness, too, will flourish in the skies—­
      Justice, transplanted thither, yields fair fruit;
    And if repentance, borne to heaven, dies,
      ’Tis that no tears are there to wet its root.

To a Lady who had been Singing.

    The spirit-harp within the breast
      A spirit’s touch alone can know,—­
    Yet thine the power to wake its rest,
      And bid its echoing numbers flow.

    Yes,—­and thy minstrel art the while,
      Can blend the tones of weal and we,
    So archly, that the heart may smile,
      Though bright, unbidden tear-drops flow.

    And thus thy wizard skill can weave
      Music’s soft twilight o’er the breast,
    As mingling day and night, at eve,
      Robe the far purpling hills for rest.

    Thy voice is treasured in my soul,
      And echoing memory shall prolong
    Those woman tones, whose sweet control
      Melts joy and sorrow into song.

    The tinted sea-shell, borne away
      Far from the ocean’s pebbly shore,
    Still loves to hum the choral lay,
      The whispering mermaid taught of yore.

    The hollow cave, that once hath known
      Echo’s lone voice, can ne’er forget—­
    But gives—­though parting years have flown—­
      The wild responsive cadence yet.

    So shall thy plaintive melody,
      Undying, linger in my heart,
    Till the last string of memory,
      By death’s chill finger struck, shall part!