TO MY BROTHER.

THE SCENES OF OUR CHILDHOOD.

Far back, through the vista of long buried years,
I look through this valley of sorrow and tears;
Like pictures, in bright glowing colors displayed,
The scenes of my life's rosy morn are portrayed.

An image, the foreground presents to my sight,
Which shed o'er my pathway its radiant light;
An image of him who first held my soft hand,
And shouted with joy when his sister could stand;

From him, I first caught the sweet magical art
Of turning to language, the thoughts of my heart;
When first to the school-house he went as my guide.
His heart swelled with pleasure, affection and pride.

Delighted, we ranged o'er the hillside, in spring,
And listened with rapture to hear the birds sing;
Then stopped in the pasture to see the lambs play,
As frolicsome, cheerful, and happy as they.

We ranged o'er the meadow, the forest, and bowers,
Picked berries for mother, and gathered wild flowers,
Dear brother, how oft by the rosebush we sat,