Iflastttr Jlotoens. 
H r . Bowen, M. IX 
TI7HEN sycamores were throwing 
' Their arms across the stream, 
The cadence of whose flowing 
Like a Naiad’s song might seem, 
A rosy child was playing— 
A child of face so fair, 
That she seemed a being straying 
From the brighter realms ot air 
On her grassy couch reclining, 
By the streamlet’s margin green, 
A rose-bud wreath entwining 
Her fair young neck was seen; 
And many bright-hued flowers. 
In field and wild-wood sought. 
Culled in their gladsome hours. 
That little child had brought. 
