If,  perchance,  some  passing  shadow

Kests  upon  the  little  heart,
Then  the  pouting  lip  will  quiver

And  the  silent  tear  will  start ;
Yet 't  is  only  for  a  moment,

Sunny  smiles  again  will  play,
At  a  tone  or  word  of  kindness,

Spoken  in  a  pleasant  way.
Now  we  see  them  meekly  kneeling

In  the  quiet  hour  of  prayer,
Now  we  hear  their  ringing  laughter

Floating  on  the  summer  air ;
Breathing  all  the  soul  of  music,

Soft  it  rises,  clear  it  swells,
In  its  wild  and  thrilling  gladness,

Sweeter  than  the  chime  of  bells.
Hath  this  world  of  ours  no  angels  ?

Do  our  dimly  shaded  eyes
Ne'er  behold  the  seraph's  glory

In  its  meek  and  lowly  guise  ?
Can  we  see  the  little  children,

Ever  beautiful  and  mild,
And  again  repeat  the  story,

Nothing  but  a  little  child  ?


4M-

BCKr


LITTLE    CHILDREN.
I  have  seen  them  watch  the  glory

Of  the  purple  sunset  sky,
All  the  soul's  unuttered  feeling

Beaming  from  the  speaking  eye  ;
To  my  heart  there  came  a  rapture

Which  the  lifted  face  did  bring,
And  I  thought,  within  rny  spirit,

Childhood  is  a  holy  thing.
When  the  soul,  all  faint  and  weary,

Falters  in  the  upward  way,
And  the  clouds  around  us  gather,

Shutting  out  each  starry  ray ;
Then  the  merry  voice  of  childhood

Seems  a  soft  and  soothing  strain —
List  we  to  its  silvery  cadence,

And  our  hearts  grow  glad  again.
When  they  talk  to  us  of  Heaven,

How  we  listen,  half  in  awe  !
As  if  they  some  holy  vision —

Some  resplendent  glory  saw ;
For  we  know  that  they  are  better,

They  are  holier  than  we,
And  they  seem  to  us  as  angels,

Spotless  in  their  purity.
