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, 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, Wind of the western sea, Come from the dying moon, and blow, While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 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: SAMUEL LOVER. MOTHER AND CHILD. THE wind blew wide the casement, and within - 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. In Ireland they have a pretty fancy, that, when a child smiles in its sleep, it is" talking with angels." A BABY was sleeping; Its mother was weeping; Were not for all; and with its playful hands 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. 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 stormy 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, To fondle all things doth she choose, She kisses both as loving friends; But evermore the halo Of angel-light increased, Like the mystery of moonlight That folds some fairy feast. Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently Our darling bud upcurled, And dropt i' the grave― God's lap - our wee White Rose of all the world. Our Rose was but in blossom, Our life was but in spring, With holy dews impearled!" You scarce could think so small a thing 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 ! 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 Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, No strength in all thy freshness, prone to fade, And bending weakly to the thunder-shower; Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind! Then THOU, my merry love, bold in thy glee, Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free, Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing, Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth, Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth! 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. At length THOU camest, thou, the last and least, Nicknamed "the Emperor" by thy laughing brothers, Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast, Mingling with every playful infant wile And O, most like a regal child wert thou! An eye of resolute and successful scheming! Fair shoulders, curling lips, and dauntless brow, Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dream ing; Organ finer, deeper, clearer, Though it be a stranger's tone, Than the winds or waters dearer, More enchanting to the hearer, For it answereth to his own. But, of all its witching words, Sweeter than the song of birds, Those are sweetest, bubbling wild Through the laughter of a child. Harmonies from time-touched towers, Haunted strains from rivulets, Hum of bees among the flowers, Rustling leaves, and silver showers, These, erelong, the ear forgets; But in mine there is a sound Ringing on the whole year round, Heart-deep laughter that I heard Ere my child could speak a word. Ah! 't was heard by ear far purer, Fondlier formed to catch the strain, Ear of one whose love is surer, Hers, the mother, the endurer Of the deepest share of pain; Pipe a song about a lamb:" "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, Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head. |