My child moans sadly in my arms,

The winds they will not let it sleep: Ah, little knows the hapless babe

What makes its wretched mother weep!

Now lie thee still, my infant dear,
I cannot bear thy sobs to see,
Harsh is thy father, little one,

And never will he shelter thee.

Oh, that I were but in my grave,
And winds were piping o'er me loud,
And thou, my poor, my orphan babe,
Were nestling in thy mother's shroud!

THE LULLABY OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO
HER CHILD, THE NIGHT PREVIOUS
TO EXECUTION.

SLEEP, baby mine,* enkerchieft on my bosom, Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast; Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest.

Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining? Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled; Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning, And I would fain compose my aching head.

Sir Philip Sidney has a poem, beginning" Sleep, baby mine."

Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy

weeping,

When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be? Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping

In her low grave of shame and infamy?

Sleep, baby mine-To-morrow I must leave thee, And I would snatch an interval of rest:

Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave thee,

For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast.

THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN.

OH! yonder is the well known spot,
My dear, my long lost native home!
Oh, welcome is yon little cot,

Where I shall rest, no more to roam!
Oh! I have travelled far and wide,

O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband.
But all their charms could not prevail
To steal my heart from yonder vale.

Of distant climes the false report
It lured me from my native land;

It bade me rove-my sole support
My cymbals and my saraband.
The woody dell, the hanging rock,
The chamois skipping o'er the heights;
The plain adorn'd with many a flock,
And, oh! a thousand more delights,
That grace yon dear beloved retreat,
Have backward won my weary feet.

Now safe return'd, with wandering tired,
No more my little home I'll leave;
And many a tale of what I've seen
Shall while away the winter's eve.
Oh! I have wander'd far and wide,
O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung
and danced my saraband;
But all their charms could not prevail
To steal my heart from yonder vale.

A PASTORAL SONG.

COME, Anna! come, the morning dawns, Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies;

Come, let us seek the dewy lawns,

And watch the early lark arise;

While nature, clad in vesture gay,

Hails the loved return of day.

Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade

Upon the moor, shall seek the vale;
And then, secure beneath the shade,
We'll listen to the throstle's tale;

And watch the silver clouds above,
As o'er the azure vault they rove.

Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute,
That with its tones, so softly sweet,
In cadence with my mellow flute,
We may beguile the noontide heat;
While near the mellow bee shall join,
To raise a harmony divine.

And then at eve, when silence reigns,
Except when heard the beetle's hum,
We'll leave the sober tinted plains,
To these sweet heights again we'll come;
And thou to thy soft lute shalt play
A solemn vesper to departing day.

MELODY.

YES, once more that dying strain,
Anna, touch thy lute for me;
Sweet, when pity's tones complain,
Doubly sweet is melody.

While the Virtues thus enweave
Mildly soft the thrilling song,
Winter's long and lonesome eve
Glides unfelt, unseen, along

Thus when life hath stolen away,
And the wintry night is near,
Thus shall virtue's friendly ray
Age's closing evening cheer.

SONG.

BY WALLER.

A lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to the Author, and when he returned them to her, she discovered an additional stanza written by him at the bottom of the song here copied.

Go, lovely rose!

Tell her, that wastes her time on me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,

That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.