ON THE PICTURE OF AN INFANT PLAYING NEAR A PRECIPICE. O, pray to them softly, my baby, with me, WHILE on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, For I know that the angels are whispering to And the blue vales a thousand joys recall, O, fly - yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall. thee." The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; And closely caressing Her child with a blessing, Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee." LULLABY. FROM "THE PRINCESS." SWEET and low, sweet and low, Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; SAMUEL LOVER. MOTHER AND CHILD. THE wind blew wide the casement, and within - While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Under the silver moon : Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. As if it knew even then that such a wreath ALFRED TENNYSON. THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. Were not for all; and with its playful hands In Ireland they have a pretty fancy, that, when a child smiles in Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek, its sleep, it is “talking with angels." A BABY was sleeping; Its mother was weeping; Tears such as fall from April skies, and bring For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously Round the fisherman's dwelling; The silliest ballad-song that ever yet And she cried, "Dermot, darling! O come back To fold her sabbath wings above its couch. Her beads while she numbered The baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee: "O, blessed be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. "And while they are keeping WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. BABY ZULMA'S CHRISTMAS CAROL. A LIGHTER scarf of richer fold The morning flushed upon our sight, And softer drips bedewed the lea, And bluer waves danced on the sea The day before, a bird had sung Ere yet the sun had crossed the line In sto ny Libra's triple stars : In storied spots of vernal flame And breezy realms of tossing shade, The tripping elves tumultuous came To join the fairy cavalcade : From blushing chambers of the rose, And bowers the lily's buds enclose, And nooks and dells of deep repose, Where human sandal never goes, The rabble poured its motley tide : It passed the bloom of purple plums Was rippled by trumpets rallying long O'er beds of pinks; and dwarfish drums Struck all the insect world to song: The milkmaid caught the low refrain, The ploughman answered to her strain, And every warbler of the plain The ringing chorus chirped again! Beneath the sunset's faded arch, It formed and filed within our porch, With not a ray to guide its march Except the twilight's silver torch : And thus she came from clouds above, With spirits of the glen and grove, A flower of grace, a cooing dove, A shrine of prayer and star of love! A queen of hearts! - her mighty chains Are beads of coral round her strung, And, ribbon-diademed, she reigns, Commanding in an unknown tongue. The kitten spies her cunning ways, The patient cur romps in her plays, And glimpses of her earlier days Are seen in picture-books of fays. To fondle all things doth she choose, And when she gets, what some one sends, A trifling gift of tiny shoes, She kisses both as loving friends; O, from a soul suffused with tears Of trust thou mayst be spared the thorn Which it has felt in other years, Across the morn our Lord was born, AUGUSTUS JULIAN REQUIER. BABY'S SHOES. O, THOSE little, those little blue shoes! Those shoes that no little feet use. O the price were high That those shoes would buy, Those little blue unused shoes! For they hold the small shape of feet That no more their mother's eyes meet, That, by God's good will, Years since, grew still, And ceased from their totter so sweet. And O, since that baby slept, That little dear treasure, For they mind her forevermore And blue eyes she sees As they lie before her there, WILLIE WINKIE. WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town, Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed?- for it's now ten o'clock." Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben? But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep. Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue:- glow'rin' like the moon, Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock, Skirlin' like a kenna-what folk! wauknin' sleepin' Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel ! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums: Hey, Willie Winkie! See, there he comes ! Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, an ee; But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me. WILLIAM MILLER. THE MOTHER'S HEART. WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Nor thought that any love again might be So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, And natural piety that leaned to heaven; Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears, Yet patient to rebuke when justly given; Obedient, easy to be reconciled, And meekly cheerful; such wert thou, my child! Not willing to be left Haunting my walks, dying; still by my side, And proud the lifting of thy stately head, while summer-day was And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide Through the dark room where I was sadly lying; Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, O boy of such as thou are oftenest made And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind! Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of joy, Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth; Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy, And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth; And many a mirthful jest and mock reply And thine was many an art to win and bless, The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming; The coaxing smile, the frequent soft caress, The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming! Again my heart a new affection found, But thought that love with thee had reached its bound. Is there, when the winds are singing Is there, of the sounds that float PIPING down the valleys wild, "Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, "Piper, sit thee down and write And I made a rural pen, WILLIAM BLAKE. LITTLE GOLDENHAIR. GOLDENHAIR climbed up on grandpapa's knee; Up in the morning as soon as 't was light, Out with the birds and butterflies bright, Skipping about till the coming of night. Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head. "What has my baby been doing," he said, "Since she arose, with the sun, from her bed?" We are but children; the things that we do Are as sports of a babe to the Infinite view That sees all our weakness, and pities it too. God grant that when night overshadows our way, And we shall be called to account for our day, He shall find us as guileless as Goldenhair's play! And O, when aweary, may we be so blest F. BURGE SMITH. THE GAMBOLS OF CHILDREN. Down the dimpled greensward dancing, Rows of liquid eyes in laughter, How they glimmer, how they quiver! Sparkling one another after, Like bright ripples on a river. Tipsy band of rubious faces, Flushed with Joy's ethereal spirit, Make your mocks and sly grimaces At Love's self, and do not fear it. GEORGE DARLEY. UNDER MY WINDOW. UNDER my window, under my window, All in the Midsummer weather, Three little girls with fluttering curls Flit to and fro together: |