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3ER, by her smile, how soon the infant knows!

How soon by his, the glad discovery


As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy,

What answering looks of sympathy and joy!
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word,
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard.
And ever ever to her lap he flies,

When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise,
Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung,
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue),
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings;
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,

Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart;
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!
But soon a nobler task demands her care;
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer,
Telling of Him who sees in secret there!
And now the volume on her knee has caught
His wandering eye-now many a written thought,
Never to die, with many a lisping sweet,

His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat.
Released, he chases the bright butterfly;
Oh, he would follow-follow through the sky!
Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his chain,
And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane;
Then runs, and, kneeling by the fountain side,
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide,
A dangerous voyage; or, if now he can,

If now he wears the habit of a man,

Flings off the coat, so long his pride and pleasure, And, like a miser digging for his treasure,

His tiny spade in his own garden plies,
And in green letters sees his name arise!
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight,

She looks, and looks, and still with new delight.



Na child's voice is there not melody?

In a child's eye, is there not rapture seen?
And rapture not of passion's revelry;

Calm, though impassioned; durable, though keen!
It is all fresh, like the young spring's first green!
Children seem spirits from above descended,
To whom still cleaves heaven's atmosphere serene;
Their very wildnesses with truth are blended;
Fresh from their skiey mould, they cannot be amended.

Warm and uncalculating, they're more wise,—
More sense that ecstasy of theirs denotes,—
More of the stuff have they of Paradise
And more the music of the warbling throats
Of choirs whose anthem round the Eternal floats,
Than all that bards e'er feigned, or tuneful skill
Has e'er struck forth from artificial notes:
Theirs is that language, ignorant of ill,

Born from a perfect harmony of power and will.



2OT happy only, but the cause of joy,

Which those who never tasted always mourned. What tongue !-no tongue shall tell what bliss o'erflowed

The mother's tender heart, while round her hung

The offspring of her love, and lisped her name;
As living jewels dropt unstained from heaven,
That made her fairer far, and sweeter seem,
Than every ornament of costlier hue.

And who hath not been ravished as she passed,
With all her playful band of little ones,
Like Luna, with her daughters of the sky,
Walking in matron majesty and grace?—

All who had hearts here pleasure found: and oft
Have I, when tired with heavy task,

(For tasks were heavy in the world below), relaxed
My weary thoughts among their guiltless sports,
And led them by their little hands, a-field;

And watched them run and crop the tender flower, —
Which oft, unasked, they brought me, and bestowed
With smiling face, that waited for a look

Of praise, and answered curious questions, put
In much simplicity, but ill to solve,

And heard their observations, strange and new.
And settled, whiles, their little quarrels, soon
Ending in peace, and soon forgot in love.




HOU art a thing on our dreams to rise,
'Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies,

And to fling bright dew from the morning back, Fair form, on each image of Childhood's track!

Thou art a thing to recall the hours

When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers, When a world was our own in some dim, sweet grove, And treasure untold in one captive Dove!

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