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THE WATCHFUL FRIEND.
She doth bid the wind impart
Its own freshness to the heart.
Every flower around is rife
With fine poetry for life:
Not a perfumed wreath but brings
Some true feelings on its wings.
On that rosy child await
Rank and sway, and wealth and state;
Sad, too often, is their dower,
Much they need a softening power.
Let with worldlier airs be blent
Some diviner element;
Let love, poetry, and thought,
Be to that fair infant brought;
Let the face of nature be
Dearest to its infancy;
And all after life will keep
Treasures from that woodland sleep.
