They were so beautiful this morn--
The lily's graceful wand
Hung with small bells, as delicate
As from a fairy's hand.
The Indian rose, so softly red,
As if in coming here
It lost the radiance of the south,
And caught a shade of fear.
The white geranium vein'd with pink,
Like that within the shell
Where, on a bed of their own hues,
The pearls of ocean dwell.
But where is now the snowy white,
And where the tender red?
How heavy over each dry stalk
Droops every languid head!
They are not worth my keeping now--
She flung them on the ground--
Some strewed the earth, and some the wind
Went scattering idly round.
She then thought of those flowers no more,
But oft, in after years,
When the young cheek was somewhat pale,
And the eyes dim with tears--
Then she recalled the faded wreath
Of other happier hours,
And felt life's hope and joy had been
But only Hot-house Flowers!
The Engravings, ten in number, with an inscription plate and vignette,
are above the usual _calibre_ of the "juvenile" embellishments: they
are better than mere pictures for children, and the chosen subjects
harmonize with the benevolent tone and temper of the letter-press; all
of them will tend to cherish kindly feelings in the hearts of the
little readers. Among the best of the prints are Going to the Well,
from Gainsborough; and the Industrious Young Cottager--a contented
girl at work, with a bird in an opened cage beside her: the little
scene is one of happy un-imprisonment and cheerful task.
* * * * *