SONGS FOR THE

 

Is your merry eye as blue

As the violet’s, wet with dew?

Yet it loves the best to hide

By the hedge’s shady side.

When your cheek the brightest glows,
Is it redder than the rose?

But the rose’s buds are seen

Almost hid with moss and green.

Little flowers that open gay,
Peeping forth at break of day,
In the garden, hedge, or plain,
Do you think that they are vain?

Beauty soon will fade away,
Your rosy check must soon decay ;

There’s nothing lasting, you will find,
But the treasures of the mind.

  

O FIE, AMELIA.
“© fie, Amelia; I’m ashamed
To hear you quarrel so:
Leave off those naughty tricks, my child—
Go play with sister, go.”
“T sha’n’t, mamma, the little girl
May play with whom she can;
And while she lives, she shall not have
My waxen doll again.”