POEMS.

Half our sorrows, half our troubles, Making head and heart to ache, Are the fruit of blowing bubbles, Bright to view, but quick to break.

All have played the child imbecile, Breathing hard to swell the sides Of a shining, fluid vessel, Frailer than the air it rides.

From the infant's cradle rising, All the bubble mania show, Oft our richest wealth comprising In the bubbles that we blow.

Brilliant, buoyant, upward going, Pleased, we mark them in their flight, Every hue of iris showing, As they glance along the light.

Little castles, high and airy, With their crystal walls so thin, Each presents the wicked fairy, Vanity, enthroned within!

But when two have struck together, What of either do we find? Not so much as one gay feather Flying Hope has left behind!

Still the world are busy, blowing, Every one, some empty ball; So the seeds of mischief sowing, Where, to burst, the bubbles fall.

Nor for self alone to gather, Is our evil harvest found; Oft, with pipe and cup, we rather Step upon our neighbor's ground.

Thus, amusing one another, While the glistening playthings rise, We may doom a friend or brother To a life of care and sighs.

Do you doubt my simple story? I can point a thousand ways Where this bubble-making glory Has in darkness hid its rays!

Yet we 'll spare a slight confusion Caused the world by giving names; Since a right to some delusion Every one from nature claims!