She only looked more meek and fair!
We parted back her silken hair;

We laid some buds upon her brow,
White buds, like scented flakes of snow,

Death's bride, arrayed in flowers!
And thus went dainty Babie Bell

Out of this world of ours!

EXTRACT FROM "ELIA."

LET the dreams of classic idolatry perish, -extinct be the fairies and fairy trumpery of legendaryfabling, in the heart of childhood there will forever spring up a well of innocent or wholesome superstition, the seeds of exaggeration will be busy there and vital, - from every day forms educing the unknown and the uncommon. In that little Goshen there will be light, when the grown-up world flounders about in the darkness of sense and materiality. While childhood, and while dreams, reducing childhood, shall be left, — imagination shall not have spread her holy wings totally to fly the earth.

ON A BRANCH OF FLOWERING ACACIA.

THE blossoms hang again upon the tree,

As when with their sweet breath they greeted me
Against my casement, on that sunny morn,
When thou, first blossom of my spring, wast born,
And as I lay, panting from the fierce strife,
With death and agony that won thy life,

Their sunny clusters hung on their brown bough,
E'en as upon my breast, my May Bud, thou.
They seem to me thy sisters, O my child!
And now the air, full of their fragrance mild
Recalls that hour; a tenfold agony
Pulls at my heartstrings as I think of thee.
Was it in vain! O, was it all in vain!
That night of hope, of terror, and of pain,
When from the shadowy boundaries of death,
I brought thee safely, breathing living breath. —
Upon my heart, it was a holy shrine,

And from its tender depths the blue heavens smiled,

And the white blossoms bowed to thee, my child,

And solemn joy of a new life was spread,

Like a mysterious halo, round that bed.

A CHILD IS BORN.

A CHILD is born, now take the germ and make it
A bud of moral beauty. Let the dews

Of knowledge and the light of virtue, wake it
In richest fragrance and in purest hues :
When passion's gust and sorrow's tempest shake it
The shelter of affection ne'er refuse,

For soon the gathering hand of death will break it,
From its weak stem of life; and it shall lose
All power to charm; but if that lovely flower
Hath swelled one pleasure, or subdued one pain,
O, who shall say that it hath lived in vain,
However fugitive its breathing hour?

For virtue leaves its sweets wherever tasted,

And scattered truth is never, never wasted.

"THE boy carried in his face the 'Open Sesame' to every door

and heart."

C. SEDGWICK.

THOUGHTS WHILE SHE ROCKS THE

CRADLE.

WHAT is the little one thinking about?
Very wonderful thing no doubt,
Unwritten history!

Unfathomable mystery!

But he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks,
And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks,
As if his head were as full of kinks,
And curious riddles, as any sphinx!

Warped by colic, and wet by tears,
Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears,
Our little nephew will lose two years,
And he 'll never know

Where the summers go!

He need not laugh, for he 'll find it so!

Who can tell what the baby thinks?
Who can follow the gossamer links
By which the manikin feels his way,

Out from the shores of the great unknown,

Blind and wailing and alone,

Into the light of day?

Out from the shores of the unknown sea

Tossing in pitiful agony !

Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,

Specked with the barks of little souls,

Barks that were launched on the other side,
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide!

And what does he think of his mother's eyes? What does he think of his mother's hair?

What of the cradle roof that flies
Forward and backward through the air?
What does he think of his mother's breast,
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,
Seeking it ever with fresh delight,
Cup of his joy, and couch of his rest?

What does he think when her quick embrace
Presses his hand and buries his face

Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell
With a tenderness she can never tell,

Though she murmur the words of all the birds,

Words she has learned to murmur so well!