THE HAREBELL. 
The lovely flower that blossoms bere, 
Starts first a smile, and tben a tear; 
Its modest beauty cbarms tbe eye, 
Its fragile form awakes tbe sigb. 
To-day it swings its purple bells, 
With every passing breeze that swells; 
But seek it on another day, 
Its fairy form bas passed away. 
So dotb tbe infant’s lovely smile. 
From every thought of care beguile. 
While to tbe mother’s loving breast. 
Its cherub bead is warmly pressed. 
No words to her fond tones reply, 
He answers with bis soft blue eye. 
His ruby bp, tbe smile that curls, 
Eeveals two bttle shining pearls. 
His tiny bands are stretched to clasp 
Tbe band that takes them in its grasp, 
What is there, in a sight bke this, 
To wake a thought of aught but bbss? 
To-morrow, I will lead you where 
That mother kneels in silent prayer, — 
Her baby’s soft blue eye is hid. 
Beneath its moveless fringed bd. 
(2Y) 
