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In part transfigured through the open door

Appears the selfsame scene.

Soft shining through the summer night,
Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see,
Beyond the horizon of their bowls ;
Nor care they for the world that rolls
With all its freight of troubled souls
Into the days that are to be.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

BABY LOUISE.

Seated I see the two again,
But not alone; they entertain
A little angel unaware,
With face as round as is the moon ;
A royal guest with flaxen hair,
Who, throned upon his lofty chair,
Drums on the table with his spoon,
Then drops it careless on the floor,
To grasp at things unseen before.
Are these celestial manners? these
The ways that win, the arts that please ?
Ah, yes; consider well the guest,
And whatsoe'er he does seems best;
He ruleth by the right divine
Of helplessness, so lately born
In purple chambers of the morn,
As sovereign over thee and thine.
He speaketh not, and yet there lies
A conversation in his eyes;
The golden silence of the Greek,
The gravest wisdom of the wise,
Not spoken in language, but in looks
More legible than printed books,
As if he could but would not speak.

I'm in love with you, Baby Louise ! With your silken hair, and your soft blue eyes, And the dreamy wisdom that in them lies, And the faint, sweet smile you brought from the

skies, – God's sunshine, Baby Louise.

When you fold your hands, Baby Louise, Your hands, like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, With a pretty, innocent, saint-like air, Are you trying to think of some angel-taught

prayer You learned above, Baby Louise ?

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I'm in love with you, Baby Louise ! Why! you never raise your beautiful head! Some day, little one, your cheek will grow red With a flush of delight, to hear the words said,

"I love you,” Baby Louise.

And now, O monarch absolute,
Thy power is put to proof; for lo!
Resistless, fathomless, and slow,
The nurse comes rustling like the sea,
And pushes back thy chair and thee,
And so good night to King Canute.

Do you hear me, Baby Louise ? I have sung your praises for nearly an hour, And your lashes keep drooping lower and lower, And — you've gone to sleep, like a weary flower,

Ungrateful Baby Louise !

MARGARET EYTINGE.

As one who walking in the forest sees
A lovely landscape through the parted trees,

Then sees it not for boughs that intervene,
Or as we see the moon sometimes revealed
Through drifting clouds, and then again con-

cealed, So I beheld the scene.

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There are two guests at table now;
The king, deposed, and older grown,
No longer occupies the throne, --
The crown is on his sister's brow;
A princess from the Fairy Tales ;
The very pattern girl of girls,
All covered and embowered in curls,
Rose tinted from the Isle of Flowers,
And sailing with soft silken sails
From far-off Dreamland into ours.
Above their bowls with rims of blue
Four azure eyes of deeper hue
Are looking, dreamy with delight;
Limpid as planets that emerge
Above the ocean's rounded verge,

Her beads while she numbered,

The baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee :

“O, blest be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with

thee.

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“And while they are keeping

Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 0, pray to them softly, my baby, with me!

And say thou wouldst rather

They'd watch o'er thy father! For I know that the angels are whispering to |

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.”

His infant fancy transient gleams
Of heaven find their way in dreams ?

And still the baby sleeps,
And as he sleeps he smiles. Ah, now
He starts, he wakes, he weeps ;
Earth-shadows cloud his baby-brow.
His smiles how fleeting ; how

Profuse his tears !
Dreams he of coming years,
Checkered by shadow and by light,
Unlike that vision holy, bright, -

That fairy gleam,

That infant dream
That made him sweetly smile ?
Do coming sin and sorrow,
Phantoms of dark to-morrow,
Their shadows cast before,

Clouding all o'er
His baby-dreams, erewhile
So beautiful ?

HARRIET W. STILLMAN.

SAMUEL LOVER,

SMILING IN HIS SLEEP.

BABY BYE.

The baby sleeps and smiles.
What fairy thought beguiles

His little brain ?
He sleeps and smiles again,
Flings his white arms about,
Half opes his sweet blue eye
As if he thought to spy,
By coyly peeping out,
The funny elf that brought
That tiny fairy thought
Unto his infant mind.
Would I some way could find
To know just how they seem,
Those dreams that infants dream.
I wonder what they are, —
Those thoughts that seem to wear

So sweet a guise ?
What picture, tiny, fair,
What vision, lovely, rare,

Delights his eyes ?
See! now he smiles once more;
Perhaps there is before
His mental sight portrayed

Some vision blest
Of that dear land of rest,

That far-off heaven,
From whence his new-created soul

Has lately strayed ;
Or to his ear, perchance, are given
Those echoes sweet that roll
From angel larps we may not hear,
We, who have added year to year,

And sin to sin.
As yet his soul is spotless. Why
Should not angelic harmony
Reach his unsullied ear ?

Why not within

BABY Bye,
Here's a fly;
Let us watch him, you and I.

How he crawls
Up the walls,

Yet he never falls !
I believe with six such legs
You and I could walk on eggs.

There he goes
On his toes,

Tickling Baby's nose.
Spots of red
Dot his head;
Rainbows on his back are spread ;

That small speck
Is his neck;

See him nod and beck.
I can show you, if you choose,
Where to look to find his shoes, —

Three small pairs,
Made of hairs;

These he always wears.
Black and brown
Is his gown ;
He can wear it upside down;

It is laced
Round his waist ;

I admire his taste.
Yet though tight his clothes are made,
He will lose them, I'm afraid,

If to-night
He gets sight
Of the candle-light.

NO BABY IN THE HOUSE.

No baby in the house, I know,

'T is far too nice and clean.
No toys, by careless fingers strewn,

Upon the floors are seen.
No finger-marks are on the panes,

No scratches on the chairs ;
No wooden men set up in rows,

Or marshaled off in pairs ;
No little stockings to be darned,

All ragged at the toes ;
No pile of mending to be done,

Made up of baby-clothes ;
No little troubles to be soothed ;

No little hands to fold ;
No grimy fingers to be washed ;

No stories to be told ;
No tender kisses to be given ;

No nicknames, “Dove” and “Mouse"; No merry frolics after tea,

No baby in the house !

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CLARA G. DOLLIVER,

In the sun
Webs are spun ;
What if he gets into one ?

When it rains
He complains

On the window-panes.
Tongue to talk have you and I ;
God has given the little fly

No such things,
So he sings

With his buzzing wings.
He can eat
Bread and meat;
There's his mouth between his feet.

On his back
Is a pack

Like a pedler's sack.
Does the baby understand ?
Then the fly shall kiss her hand ;

Put a crumb
On her thumb,

Maybe he will come.
Catch him? No,
Let him go;
Never hurt an insect so;

But no doubt
He flies out

Just to gad about.
Now you see his wings of silk
Drabbled in the baby's milk;

Fie, O fie
Foolish fly!

How will he get dry ?
All wet flies
Twist their thighs ;
Thus they wipe their heads and eyes;

Cats, you know,
Wash just so,

Then their whiskers grow.
Flies have hairs too short to comb,
So they fly bareheaded home;

But the gnat
Wears a hat.
Do you believe that?

BABY'S SHOES.

O, THOSE little, those little blue shoes ! Those shoes that no little feet use!

0, 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,
So hushed, how the mother has kept,

With a tearful pleasure,

That little dear treasure, And over them thought and wept !

For they mind her forevermore
Of a patter along the floor ;

And blue eyes she sees

Look up from her knees With the look that in life they wore.

Flies can see
More than we,
So how bright their eyes must be !

Little fly,
Ope your eye ;

Spiders are near by.
For a secret I can tell, —
Spiders never use flies well.

Then away!
Do not stay.
Little fly, good day.

THEODORE TILTON.

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