THE HOLLY TREE.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle, through their prickly round,
Can reach to wound;

But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize;

And in this wisdom of the holly tree
Can emblems see

Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear
Harsh and austere,

To those who on my leisure would intrude,
Reserved and rude;

Gentle at home, amid my friends, I'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, Some harshness show,

All vain asperities I, day by day,

Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be

Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,

MY CHILD.

The holly leaves their fadeless hues display
Less bright than they;

But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the holly tree?

So, serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;

So would I seem, amid the young and gay,
More grave than they;

That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the holly tree.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

MY CHILD.

I CANNOT make him dead!
His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study chair;
Yet, when my eyes, now dim
With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes-he is not there!

I walk my parlor floor,

And, through the open door,
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
I'm stepping toward the hall

To give the boy a call;

And then bethink me that- he is not there!

MY CHILD.

I thread the crowded street;

A satchelled lad I meet,

With the same beaming eyes and colored hair;
And, as he's running by,

Follow him with my eye,

Scarcely believing that he is not there!

I know his face is hid

Under the coffin lid;

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt;

O'er it in prayer I knelt;

Yet my heart whispers that he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!

When passing by the bed,

So long watched over with parental care,

My spirit and my eye

Seek him inquiringly,

Before the thought comes that he is not there!

When, at the cool, gray break

Of day, from sleep I wake,

With my first breathing of the morning air

My soul goes up, with joy,

To Him who gave my boy;

Then comes the sad thought that he is not there!

When at the day's calm close,

Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,

MY CHILD.

Whate'er I may be saying,

I am in spirit praying
For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there!

Not there! Where, then, is he?

The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear.
The grave, that now doth press
Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe locked;-he is not there!

He lives!-In all the past

He lives; nor, to the last,
Of seeing him again will I despair;

In dreams I see him now;

And, on his angel brow,

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!

FATHER, thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,

That in the spirit land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

"Twill be our heaven to find that-he is there!

JOHN PIERPONT

IT NEVER COMES AGAIN.

THERE are gains for all our losses,
There are balms for all our pain ;
But when youth, the dream, departs,
It takes something from our hearts,
And it never comes again.

We are stronger, and are better,
Under manhood's sterner reign ;
Still we feel that something sweet
Followed youth, with flying feet,
And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain:
We behold it everywhere,
On the earth, and in the air,
But it never comes again.

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

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