MY PICTURE.

I HAVE a little picture; Perchance you have one too. Mine is not set in frame of gold; ’Tis first a bit of blue, And then a background of dark hills— A river just below, Along whose broad, green meadow banks The wreathing elm trees grow. Upon an overhanging ridge A little farm-house stands, Whose owner, like the man of old, Has builded “on the sands;” And yet, defying storms and wind, It stands there all alone, And brightens up the landscape With a beauty of its own. Fairy-like my picture changes As the seasons come and go. Now it glows ’neath summer’s kisses; Now it sleeps ’mid winter’s snow. I can see the breath of spring-time In the river’s deeper blue, And autumn seems to crown it With her very brightest hue. Ah. I’d not exchange my picture For the choicest gem of art; Yet I must not claim it wholly; It is only mine in part; For ’tis one of nature’s sketches— A waif from that Great Hand Which hath filled our earth with models Of the beautiful and grand.