POETRY.
ROSE-WINDOW.
" LooK, mother, look ! do you not see, Up there in the roof, that burning tree ?
And all those coloured fruits that shake So bright above the lovely lake ?
Is Heaven like that ? " . . . In the dark'pew Closer and closer the child drew Her mother to her ; as if the gold And purple pools in the window told A tale so rare, she wished to know Whether she only dreamed it so.
Tightly she shut her eyes ; and then Suddenly opened them again, That with a trick she might divine-
0, just how wonderful could shine
That well of sun and sulphur-flame And colour without any name.
. . If they who wrought such art could see That little child adoringly
Lift up her eyes in wonder, then, Surely they were most blest of men— Knowing that in their rose-lit hour Her spirit opened like a flower.
C. HENRY WARREN,
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