rs do not look out at me; their eyes are shuttered to all
such vulgar sights. It was impertinent, but this morning I pitied you
(_you!_) that you could not see the wondrous beauty of the--_city in
August!_

The morning was gloriously beautiful: it might have been the sister to
that one born so long ago, on which its Creator looked, and said that it
was 'good.' I actually forgot that I had no position; I imagined I had,
for the very brightest beauty filled my soul--I saw angels ascending and
descending (not Beacon street, as in the winter season) the charmed air
around me. 'Ye land of flowers,' indeed! All of them mine--mine, though
I must not pluck the humblest one. In truth, I had no desire to do so.
Why should I take the lovely creatures from their beautiful home, to the
close, dull room where I must sit all the bright day? Let me rather
think of them fresh, free, and happy there, as I often think of a
golden-haired child in heaven; one so dear to my heart of hearts, I
bless God that I _can_ think of her there with the angels who stand
nearest the Throne--and far, far away the weary paths that I must tread
to the end. But if heaven had not wanted another cherub, and she had
been left to be the flower of my life, think you I could have seen her
beauty wither in the dull room to which I must hasten in an hour? No! a
thousand times no! I should leave her with her sisters in the garden
here, with her cousins, the birds and butterflies, while I worked for
both. Lilies must neither 'toil nor spin.' How idly I am dreaming! She
is far away from this worky-day world; I shall never see her again, but
in dreams, as now! Little sister! with starry eyes, and soft curls
clustering around the sweet infant face; so many nights the same bright
vision--with the same wreath which I myself placed on her head, of May's
pale flowers, and she the palest. Only lilies of the valley, I remember,
seemed fitting for my darling's brow, or to grow on

ANNIE'S GRAVE.

Bright Roses, wither on the spray!
Your sweetness mocks the doom
Of her whose cheeks, so pale to-day,
Were rivals of your bloom.

Sweet Violets, I charge ye, fade!
Wear not those robes of blue,
For eyes are closed which Nature made
Of a more lovely hue.

Pale Lilies, sad and drooping low,
With perfume like her breath,
On Annie's grave alone shall grow,
_Fair flower, plucked by Death_.

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