Why, O why such awkward blunders?
Better far have stayed away,

Nor have thrust yourself where woman
Holds an undisputed sway:

Do you think that now they 'll name it,
As they meant to, after you?
Wretched mortal! let me answer,
You 're deluded if you do!

Round about the noisy women

Pass the helpless stranger now, Raptured with each nascent feature, Chin and mouth and eyes and brow ; And for this young bud of promise All neglect the rose in bloom, Eldest born, who, quite forgotten, Pouts within her lonely room.

Sound the stage-horn! ring the cow-bell!
That the waiting world may know;
Publish it through all our borders,
Even unto Mexico.

Seize your pen, O dreaming poet!

And in numbers smooth as may be,
Spread afar the joyful tidings,

Betsey 's got another baby!

THE chicken walks from out its shell, and goes its food to find, While helpless lies for months and years the child of human

kind;

Which yet, by gradual growth, o'ertops all else in strength and

mind.

O, slow of thought! remember this, — be thankful and resigned. SAADI THE PERSIAN POET OF SCHIRAZ.

HOME.

THOU, whose every hour

Is spent in home's green bower,

Where love, like golden fruit o'erhanging grows,

Where those to thy soul sweet

United, circling, meet,

As lapping leaves which form the entire rose; Thank thy God well, — soon from this joy thy day

Passes away.

Thou, from whose household nooks

Peep forth gay gleaming looks,

Those "fairy heads" shot up from opening flowers,

With wondrous perfume filled

The fresh, the undistilled,

The overflowing bliss that childhood showers

Praise him who gave, and at whose word their stay

Passes away.

EXTRACT FROM KING JOHN. ACT III.

King Philip. You are as fond of grief as of your child.

Constance. He talks to me that never had a son. Grief fills the room up of my absent child,

Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief.

OUR BIRTHDAYS.

WHAT different dooms our birthdays bring!
For instance, this little manikin thing
Survives to wear many a wrinkle ;

While that little craft is cast away
In its very first trip to Babbicome Bay,
And expires without even a twinkle.

What different lots our stars accord!

This babe to be hailed and wooed as a Lord!
And that to be shunned like a leper!
One to the world's wine, honey, and corn,
Another, like Colchester native, born
To its vinegar, only, and pepper.

And the other sex, the tender, the fair,

What wide reverses of fate are there,

Whilst Margaret, charmed by the Bulbul rare,

In a garden of Gul reposes,

Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street,
Till—think of that, who finds life so sweet!
She hates the smell of roses!

FRAGMENT

FROM THE LIST OF "DAILY TRIALS."

CHILDREN, with drums.

Strapped round them by the fond paternal ass, Peripatetics with a blade of grass

Between their thumbs.

O. W. HOLMES.

THE CHILD AND THE GOSSAMER.

A SUNBEAM was playing through flowers that hung
Round a casement, that looked to the day,
And its bright touch wakened a child, who sung
As it woke, and began its play;

And it played with the gossamer beam that shed
Its fairy brightness around its head:
O, 't was sweet to see that child so fair,

At play with the dazzling things of air.