the bubbles that float upon the stream. No change
had passed upon the silver bosom of the waters.

Henriette is happy in the dear old home. Her old nurse is the nurse of
her children. A manly form is by her side; tender words are spoken in
a deep-toned voice; but it is the husband of her youth instead of the
father of her childhood. Happy in the affections of her husband and
children, and in the faithful performance of those sweet duties that
devolve upon her as a wife and mother, Henriette spends her useful
life in the exercise of those virtues she only learned from reverses
in fortune. Henry too is happy. Disgusted with flattering attentions
paid to wealth, he had won him a name and a bride, while his
circumstances were unknown. He had watched unobserved the patient
endurance and unwavering industry of Henriette Clinton, and resolved
they should not go unrewarded.

The smile of heaven rests upon the happy household, and it is invoked
by the voice of ardent prayer, and the family kneel together around
the family altar, and the rich, deep-toned voice of Henry offers up
the morning and evening sacrifice, rendering praise and thanksgiving
to the giver of every good and perfect gift.

The Child.

Laughing child of the noble brow,
Whither, say, whither comest thou?
I've been wandering long in sunlit bow'rs,
Chasing butterflies and flow'rs;
And this bright garland round my hair,
Is one that I've been twining there.

Happy child of the garland gay,
Whither wanderest thou to play?
I've been floating bubbles on silver streams:
Printing the sand with golden dreams;
I've wandered widely all the day,
And feel much wearied with my play.

Gentle child of the languid brow,
What is this comes o'er thee now?
My wearied limbs are filled with pain,
A scorching fever burns my brain;
Hope dances not before my eyes,
But only points beyond the skies.

Wasted child of the marble brow,
Mysterious death steals o'er thee now.
How pale and ghastly is thy cheek,
Thy quiv'ring lips refuse to speak;
Fluttering and pausing comes thy breath:--
It ceases now, thou 'rt cold in death.

There hangs the wreath which yesterday,
Like thee, was blooming bright and gay;
Emblem still, its leaves are dead,
Their colors gone, their beauty fled;
But withered roses shed perfume,
That live beyond the mould'ring tomb.

Happy child of the angel brow,
Brighter wreaths entwine