Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane.

That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he 'll close an ee;

But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength

anew to me.

WILLIAM MILLER.

TO FERDINAND SEYMOUR.

Rosy child, with forehead fair,
Coral lip, and shining hair,

In whose mirthful, clever eyes
Such a world of gladness lies;
As thy loose curls idly straying
O'er thy mother's cheek, while playing,
Blend her soft lock's shadowy twine
With the glittering light of thine,—
Who shall say, who gazes now,
Which is fairest, she or thou?

In sweet contrast are ye met, Such as heart could ne'er forget: Thou art brilliant as a flower, Crimsoning in the sunny hour Merry as a singing-bird,

In the green wood sweetly heard;
Restless as if fluttering wings
Bore thee on thy wanderings;
Ignorant of all distress,
Full of childhood's carelessness.

She is gentle; she hath known
Something of the echoed tone
Sorrow leaves, where'er it goes,
In this world of many woes.
On her brow such shadows are
As the faint cloud gives the star,
Veiling its most holy light,
Though it still be pure and bright;
And the color in her cheek
To the hue on thine is weak,
Save when flushed with sweet surprise,
Sudden welcomes light her eyes;
And her softly chiselled face
(But for living, moving grace)

Looks like one of those which beam
In th' Italian painter's dream,—

Some beloved Madonna, bending
O'er the infant she is tending:
Holy, bright, and undefiled
Mother of the Heaven-born child;
Who, though painted strangely fair,
Seems but made for holy prayer,
Pity, tears, and sweet appeal,
And fondness such as angels feel:
Baffling earthly passion's sigh
With serenest majesty!

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I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow,
Philip, my king!

The spirit that there lies sleeping now,
May rise like a giant, and make men bow
As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers.
My Saul, than thy brethren higher and
fairer,

Let me behold thee in future years!
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,
Philip, my king-

A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day,
Philip, my king!

Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way
Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray;
Rebels within thee, and foes without

Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious,

Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout,

As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, "Philip, the king!"

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.

A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that, when a child smiles in its sleep, it is "talking with angels."

A BABY was sleeping;

Its mother was weeping;

For her husband was far on the wild raging

sea;

And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman's dwelling;

And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh come back to me!"

Her beads while she numbered,

The baby still slumbered,

And smiled in her face as she bended her

knee:

"Oh blest be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.

"And while they are keeping

Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me!

SLEEP on, baby on the floor,

Tired of all thy playingSleep with smile the sweeter for

That you dropped away in ;
On your curls' fair roundness stand
Golden lights serenely;

One cheek, pushed out by the hand,
Folds the dimple inly—
Little head and little foot

Heavy laid for pleasure;
Underneath the lids half-shut
Plants the shining azure;
Open-souled in noonday sun,
So, you lie and slumber;
Nothing evil having done,
Nothing can encumber.

I, who cannot sleep as well,
Shall I sigh to view you?
Or sigh further to foretell

All that may undo you?
Nay, keep smiling, little child,
Ere the fate appeareth!

I smile, too; for patience mild
Pleasure's token weareth.
Nay, keep sleeping before loss;
I shall sleep, though losing!
As by cradle, so by cross,
Sweet is the reposing.

And God knows, who sees us twain,
Child at childish leisure,

I am all as tired of pain

As you are of pleasure.

Very soon, too, by His grace,

Gently wrapt around me, I shall show as calm a face,

I shall sleep as soundlyDiffering in this, that you

Clasp your playthings sleeping,
While my hand must drop the few
Given to my keeping-

Differing in this, that I,
Sleeping, must be colder,
And, in waking presently,
Brighter to beholder-
Differing in this beside

(Sleeper, have you heard me?
Do you move, and open wide
Your great eyes toward me?)
That while I you draw withal
From this slumber solely,
Me, from mine, an angel shall,
Trumpet-tongued and holy!

ELIZABETH BARLETT BROWNING,

THE CHILD ASLEEP.

SWEET babe! true portrait of thy father's

face,

Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have

pressed!

Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast.

Upon that tender eye, my little friend,

Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me!

I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend; 'Tis sweet to watch for thee-alone for thee!

His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow; His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm.

Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm?

Awake, my boy!-I tremble with affright! Awake, and chase this fatal thought!— Unclose

Thine eye but for one moment on the light!

Even at the price of thine, give me repose!

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Sweet error!-he but slept-I breathe again. Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile!

Oh! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, Beside me watch to see thy waking smile? CLOTILDE DE SURVILLE. (French.) Translation of H. W. LONGFELLOW.

THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES

THAT way look, my infant, lo!
What a pretty baby-show!
See the kitten on the wall,

Sporting with the leaves that fall—
Withered leaves,-one, two, and three,--
From the lofty elder-tree!
Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round, they sink
Softly, slowly; one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed

Sylph or fairy hither tending,
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute
In his wavering parachute.

-But the Kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!
First at one, and then its fellow
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now,-now one,-
Now they stop, and there are none.
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-leap! Half-way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again;
Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian conjurer;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.

Were her antics played in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,

Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd?
Over happy to be proud,

Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure!

'Tis a pretty baby treat, Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; Here for neither Babe nor me Other playmate can I see. Of the countless living things That with stir of feet and wings (In the sun or under shade, Upon bough or grassy blade), And with busy revellings, Chirp, and song, and murmurings, Made this orchard's narrow space, And this vale, so blithe a place; Multitudes are swept away, Never more to breathe the day. Some are sleeping; some in bands Travelled into distant lands; Others slunk to moor and wood, Far from human neighborhood; And, among the kinds that keep With us closer fellowship, With us openly abide, All have laid their mirth aside.

Where is he, that giddy sprite,
Blue-cap, with his colors bright,
Who was blest as bird could be,
Feeding in the apple-tree-
Made such wanton spoil and rout,
Turning blossoms inside out-

Hung, head pointing towards the ground,
Fluttered, perched, into a round
Bound himself, and then unbound-
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin!
Prettiest tumbler ever seen!

Light of heart, and light of limb—
What is now become of him?

Lambs, that through the mountains went
Frisking, bleating merriment,
When the year was in its prime,

They are sobered by this time.

If you look to vale or hill,

If you listen, all is still,

Save a little neighboring rill

That from out the rocky ground
Strikes a solitary sound.
Vainly glitter hill and plain,
And the air is calm in vain;
Vainly Morning spreads the lure

Of a sky serene and pure; Creature none can she decoy Into open sign of joy.

Is it that they have a fear Of the dreary season near? Or that other pleasures be Sweeter even than gayety?

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell
In the impenetrable cell

Of the silent heart which Nature
Furnishes to every creature-
Whatsoe'er we feel and know
Too sedate for outward show-
Such a light of gladness breaks,
Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,-
Spreads with such a living grace
O'er my little Dora's face-
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine

That your transports are not mine,
That I do not wholly fare
Even as ye dc, thoughtless pair!
And I will have my careless season
Spite of melancholy reason,

Will walk through life in such a way
That, when time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
Pleased by any random toy-
By a kitten's busy joy,
Or an infant's laughing eye
Sharing in the ecstasy-

I would fare like that or this,
Find my wisdom in my bliss,
Keep the sprightly soul awake,
And have faculties to take,

Even from things by sorrow wrought,
Matter for a jocund thought-
Spite of care, and spite of grief,
To gambol with Life's falling leaf.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

THE CHILD IN THE WILDERNESS.

ENCINCTURED in a twine of leaves

That leafy twine his only dressA lovely boy was plucking fruits

In a moonlight wilderness.

The moon was bright, the air was free,

And fruits and flowers together grew, And many a shrub, and many a tree:

And all put on a gentle hue, Hanging in the shadowy air Like a picture rich and rare.

It was a climate where they say

The night is more beloved than day.

But who that beauteous boy beguiled

That beauteous boy!-to linger here?
Alone by night, a little child,

In place so silent and so wild-
Has he no friend, no loving mother near?

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

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