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120 CAROLINE GILMAN.

'Tis morning in my garden; each leaf of crisped green
Hangs tremulous in diamond gems with emerald rays between.
It is the birth of nature; baptized in early dew,
The plants look meekly up and smile as if their God they knew.

My garden —fair and brilliant!— the butterfly outspread
Alights with gentle fluttering on the wall-flower's golden head,
Then darting to the lily-bed floats o'er its sheeted white,
And settles on the violet's cup with fanciful delight.

My quiet little garden! —I hear the rolling wheel
Of the city's busy multitude along the highway peal,
I tread thy paths more fondly, and inhale the circling air
That glads and cools me on its way from that wide mart of care.

My friendly little garden! few worldly goods have I
To tender with o'erflowing heart in blessed charity,
But, like the cup of water by a pure disciple given,
An herb or flower may tell its tale of kindliness in heaven.

My faith-inspiring garden! thy seeds so dark and cold
Late slept in utter loneliness amid earth's senseless mould;
No sunbeams fell upon them, nor west-wind's gentle breath,
But there they lay in nothingness, an image meet of death.

Now, lo! they rise in gorgeous ranks, and glad the eager eye,
And on the wooing summer-breeze their odour passes by;
The flower-grave cannot chain them; the spirit-life upsprings
And scatters beauty in its path from thousand unseen wings.

My garden! may the morning dew rest lightly on thy bowers,
And summer clouds distil around their most refreshing showers,
And when the daily sun withdraws his golden tent above,
May moon and stars look watchful down and bless thee with their love.

CAROLINE GILMAN. 121

OLD AGE.

WHY should old age escape unnoticed here,
That sacred era to reflection dear?
That peaceful shore where passion dies away,
Like the last wave that ripples o'er the bay?
Oh, if old age were cancell'd from our lot,
Full soon would man deplore the unhallow'd blot!
Life's busy day would want its tranquil even,
And earth would lose her stepping-stone to heaven.

THE CHILD'S WISH IN JUNE.

MOTHER, mother, the winds are at play,
Prithee, let me be idle to-day.
Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie
Languidly under the bright blue sky.
See, how slowly the streamlet glides;
Look, how the violet roguishly hides;
Even the butterfly rests on the rose,
And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes.
Poor Tray is asleep in the noon-day sun,
And the flies go about him one by one;
And pussy sits near with a sleep grace,
Without ever thinking of washing her face.
There flies a bird to a neighbouring tree,
But very lazily flieth he,
And he sits and twitters a gentle note,
That scarcely ruffles his little throat.

You bid me be busy; but, mother, hear
How the hum-drum grasshopper soundeth near,
And the soft west wind is so light in its play,
It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray.

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 11:54:26 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 16:13:23 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 13:22:01 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 15:54:26