TO A CHILD.

BARRY CORNWALL.

FAIREST of earth's creatures!

All thy innocent features

Moulded in beauty do become thee well.

Oh! may thy future

years

Be free from pains and fears,

False love and others' envy, and the guile

That lurks beneath a friend-like smile,

And all the various ills that dwell

In this so strange-compounded world; and may Thy looks be like the skies of May,

Supremely soft and clear,

With now and then a tear

For others' sorrows, not thy own.

And may thy sweet voice,

Like a stream afar,

Flow in perpetual music, and its tone
Be joyful, and bid all who hear rejoice;
And may thy bright eye, like a star,

B

Shine sweet, and cheer the hearts that love thee,
And take in all the beauty of the flowers,

Deep woods, and running brooks, and the rich sights
Which thou mayst note above thee

At noontide, or on inter-lunar nights,
Or when blue Iris, after showers,

Bends her cerulean bow, and seems to rest
On some distant mountain's breast,

Surpassing all the shapes that lie
Haunting the sunset of an autumn sky.

ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.

· J. CUNNINGHAM.

YES, thou art fled, and saints a welcome sing;
Thine infant spirit soars on angel wing ;
Our dark affection might have hoped thy stay,—
The voice of God has call'd the child away.
Like Samuel early in the temple found-
Sweet rose of Sharon, plant of holy ground,
O! more than Samuel blessed, to thee is given,
The God he served on earth to serve in heaven.

THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLEST.

MRS. HEMANS.

HAPPY were they, the mothers, in whose sight
Ye grew, fair children! hallowed from that hour
By your Lord's blessing! surely thence a shower
Of heavenly beauty, a transmitted light

Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright,
Through all the after years which saw ye move
Lowly yet still majestic, in the might,

The conscious glory of the Saviour's love! And honoured be all childhood, for the sake Of that high love! Let reverential care Watch to behold the immortal spirit wake,

And shield its first bloom from unholy air; Owning in each young suppliant glance the sign Of claims upon a heritage divine.

TO A SLEEPING CHILD.

PROFESSOR WILSON.

ART thou a thing of mortal birth,
Whose happy home is on our earth?
Does human blood with life embue
Those wandering veins of heavenly blue,
That stray along thy forehead fair,
Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair?
Oh! can that light and airy breath
Steal from a being doomed to death;
Those features to the grave be sent
In sleep thus mutely eloquent ;

Or art thou, what thy form would seem,
The phantom of a blessed dream?

A human shape I feel thou art,
I feel it at my beating heart,—
Those tremors both of soul and sense,
Awoke by infant innocence!

Though dear the forms by fancy wove,
We love them with a transient love;
Thoughts from the living world intrude
Even on her deepest solitude: