"MOTHER, what are those little things,
That twinkle from the skies?"
"The Stars, my child!" "I thought, Mother,
They were the angels' eyes.
"They look down on me, so like yours,
As beautiful, and mild;
When, by my crib, you used to sit,
And watch your feverish child.
"And, always, when I shut my eyes,
And said my little prayers,
I felt so safe: because I knew,
That they had opened theirs."
RIVERSIDE, Monday BEFORE EASTER, 1855.