The robins went, the livelong day;
The lily swung its noiseless bell;

And o'er the porch the trembling vine
Seemed bursting with its veins of wine.
How sweetly, softly, twilight fell!
O, earth was full of singing-birds

And opening springtide flowers, When the dainty Baby Bell

Came to this world of ours!

O Baby, dainty Baby Bell,
How fair she grew from day to day!
What woman-nature filled her eyes,
What poetry within them lay,-
Those deep and tender twilight eyes,

So full of meaning, pure and bright
As if she yet stood in the light
Of those oped gates of Paradise.
And so we loved her more and more:
Ah, never in our hearts before

Was love so lovely born!

We felt we had a link between
This real world and that unseen,—
The land beyond the morn;
And for the love of those dear eyes,
For love of her whom God led forth,
(The mother's being ceased on earth
When Baby came from Paradise,)—
For love of Him who smote our lives,

And woke the chords of joy and pain,

We said, Dear Christ !-our hearts bent down Like violets after rain.

T. B. ALDRICH.

Cloth of Gold. (Routledge.)

THE FIRST-BORN.

NEVER did music sink into my soul

So "silver sweet," as when thy first weak wail
On my rapt ear in doubtful murmurs stole,
Thou child of love and promise!-What a tale
Of hopes and fears, of gladness and of gloom,
Hung on that slender filament of sound!
Life's guileless pleasures, and its griefs profound
Seem'd mingling in thy horoscope of doom.
Thy bark is launch'd, and lifted is thy sail
Upon the weltering billows of the world;

But oh! may winds far gentler than have hurl'd
My struggling vessel on, for thee prevail :
Or, if thy voyage must be rough,-may'st thou
Soon 'scape the storm and be-as bless'd as I am
now!

ALARIC A. WATTS.

SONG: TO E. P.

WHEN Our little Queen was born, Winter first with furious pother Flew to fix his icy scorn

On the infant and the mother.

But in such a loving fashion

Side by side he found them laid, That to pity all his passion Melting quite, he softly said:

"Child and mother sleep unharmed! See how vanquished by your beauty Winter's dreadful self disarmed

Kneels to do you dearest duty."

Then a courser blast bestriding, Winter waved his wild adieu, And the gentle spring came guiding To the couch her zephyrs blue.

Leaning there, the imperial maid

From the crystal car that bore her, Lightly her flower-sceptre laid

On the lovely babe before her,

Whisp'ring, "Since thy wiles have driven Winter from my budding bowers, Every grace I e'er have given,

Mortal maiden, shall be yours.

"See! I touch with violets two Lisa's lids, in token tender Of the eyes of modest blue

That shall most enchantment lend her.

"Next I lay these mountain daisies,

Clustering close with crimson tips Round their petals' pearly graces, For a sign on Lisa's lips.

Panting and straining for relief
Unto a passionate and hopeless grief:
"Whither, O thou in vain beloved,

Whither hast thou borne

The smiles and kisses, that were gathered up
In thee, for her that bare thee, now forlorn,
As sweets in the wild rose's cup
Before the morn ? "

"Is that thy feeble cry

But just beyond the threshold of the grave ? 1
Art thou yet waiting in the voiceless hall
Of Dis, or hear'st the mourning waters fall?
Thou canst not sure be nigh

Where mad and shrieking spirits rave.

Or dost thou slumber take

By the deep glassy and translucent lake,
Through a chill exhaustless night,
Apart from woe, yet senseless of delight?”

There was no audible reply,
Only a faint far echo, to that cry

Of natural yearning. But our task
Is lighter far and when we ask—
"Is all thy fate as dark

As is the pall upon thy limbs?

Is there no Sun above, no saviour ark,
That on the black sea swims,

And bears the children, loved of God and blest,
Unto the land of rest?"

We hear a voice, from the high seats of bliss, That answers, "Yes."

Yes! narrow was the space

Where thy life ran its hurried race,
Like one affrighted by the far-off glare
Of the world's pleasures and alarms,

That from the sin, the sorrow, and the care

Fled, to seek shelter in the arms

Of his first Father; and had rest
Upon His breast.

O joy, that on that narrow space
There is no spot of acted sin;
No burning trace,

As where evil thoughts have been.

Thou hast not known how hard it is to kill
The inveterate strength of self-desire,

'Eneid vi. 428.

To quench the smouldering and tenacious fire;
And never did thine unexpanded will
Gather its conscious energies, to move
Against the God of love.

The volume of this life was soon unrolled;
But the hours of thy small earthly store,
Although they were no more

Than might be numbered, at the dawn of sense,

By a child's first intelligence,

Yet were their single moments told

To them that stood around

By a faint moaning sound,

Repeated with that labouring breath
That ever ushers Death,

Instead of the serene and soft pulsation
Of an infant's respiration.

How small the tribute, then, of human pain
The Eternal Wisdom did ordain

Thy migrant spirit should be bound to pay
Upon its way

Unto fruition of the immortal prize,

Purchased for thee by rain of scalding tears,
By agony indign,

By woes how heavier far than thine
Through more protracted years,
And deeper sighs.

One evening, thou wert not.

The next, thou wert; and wert in bliss ;

And wert in bliss for ever. And is this
So desolate a lot,

To be the theme of unconsolèd sorrow,
Because, thy first to-morrow,
Thou wert ordained a vest to wear,
Not made like ours of clay,

But woven with the beams of clearest day,

A cherub fair?

For on that one, that well-spent morn,
Unconscious thou wert borne

To wash in the baptismal stream;

To gain thy title to the glorious name

Which doth unbar the Gates of Paradise:

And thou wert taken home

Before the peril that might come

By thy parents' human pride

In thy soft beaming eyes;

But not before

Their blessings on thee they might pour,
And pray that, if so early doom betide,
Yet God might speed thee on thy path
Through the void realms of Death,

And Christ reserve thee in His bosom-peace
Till pain and sin shall cease;

Till earthly shows shall fly, and they
Shall wake to life, with thee, from clay.

We are amid the tumult and the stress
Of a fierce eddying fight;
And, to our mortal sight,

Our fate is trembling in the balances,
And even it hath seemed

The Tempter at the nether scale
Might over Love prevail :

But thy dear Faith can never fail,
Thou art redeemed!

The shadowy forms of doubt and change Athwart thy tranquil fate no more may range, Nor speck its lucid path

With tokens and remembrances of Death.

Then flow, ye blameless tears, a while,
A little while ye may :

The natural craving to beguile,

This task is yours; with you

Shall peace be born anew,
And sorrow glide away.

O happy they, in whose remembered lot
There should appear no darker spot

Than this, of holy ground,

This, where within the short and narrow bound, From morn to eventide,

In quick successive train,

An infant lived and died

And lived again.

W. E. GLADSTONE.

[From "Good Words," by kind permission of Messrs. Isbister and Co.]

A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE.

I SADDEN when thou smilest to my smile,
Child of my love! I tremble to believe
That o'er the mirror of that eye of blue
The shadow of my heart will always pass ;—

A heart that, from its struggle with the world,
Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home,
And, careless of the staining dust it brings,
Asks for its idol! Strange, that flowers of earth
Are visited by every air that stirs,

And drink in sweetness only, while the child
That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven,

May take a blemish from the breath of love,
And bear the blight for ever.

I have wept

With gladness at the gift of this fair child!
My life is bound up in her. But, O God!
Thou know'st how heavily my heart at times
Bears its sweet burthen; and if Thou hast given
To nurture such as mine this spotless flower,
To bring it unpolluted unto Thee,

Take Thou its love, I pray Thee! Give it light—
Though, following the sun, it turn from me!—
But, by the chord thus wrung, and by the light
Shining about her, draw me to my child!
And link us close, O God, when near to heaven!
N. P. WILLIS.
Poetical Works. (Routledge.)

A MOTHER'S DOMAIN.

WOMEN know

The way to rear up children, (to be just)
They know a simple, merry, tender knack
Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes,

And stringing pretty words that make no sense,
And kissing full sense into empty words,
Which things are corals to cut life upon,
Although such trifles: children learn by such,
Love's holy earnest in a pretty play,
And get not over-early solemnised,
But seeing, as in a rose-bush, Love Divine

Which burns and hurts not,-not a single bloom,—
Become aware and unafraid of Love.

Such good do mothers. Fathers love as well
-Mine did, I know,-but still with heavier brains,
And wills more consciously responsible,
And not as wisely, since less foolishly;

So mothers have God's licence to be missed.

E. B. BROWNING. Aurora Leigh. (Smith, Elder, and Co.)

THE WOES OF BABYHOOD.
(From "A Parthian Glance.")

WHAT a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long,
On a dimity lap of true nursery make!

I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake.

Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes,

When my flesh was a cushion for any long pinWhilst they patted my body to comfort my woes, Oh! how little they dreamt they were driving

them in!

Infant sorrows are strong-infant pleasures as weak

But no grief was allow'd to indulge in its note; Did you ever attempt a small "bubble and squeak,” Thro' the Dalby's Carminative down in your throat?

Did you ever go up to the roof with a bounce? Did you ever come down to the floor with the same?

Oh! I can't but agree with both ends, and pro

nounce

"Head or tail's" with a child, an unpleasantish game! THOMAS HOOD. Poetical Works. (Ward, Lock, and Co.)

TO MY DAUGHTER.

THOU hast the colours of the Spring, The gold of kingcups triumphing,

The blue of wood-bells wild; But winter-thoughts thy spirit fill, And thou art wandering from us still, Too young to be our child.

Yet have thy fleeting smiles confessed,
Thou dear and much-desirèd guest,
That home is near at last;
Long lost in high mysterious lands,
Close by our door thy spirit stands,
Its journey well-nigh past.

Oh sweet bewildered soul, I watch
The fountains of thine eyes, to catch
New fancies bubbling there,

To feel our common light, and lose
The flush of strange ethereal hues

Too dim for us to share!

Fade, cold immortal lights, and make
This creature human for my sake,
Since I am nought but clay;

An angel is too fine a thing
To sit beside my chair and sing,

And cheer my passing day.

I smile, who could not smile, unless
The air of rapt unconsciousness

Passed, with the fading hours;

I joy in every childish sign
That proves the stranger less divine
And much more meekly ours.

I smile, as one by night who sees,
Through mist of newly-budded trees,
The clear Orion set,

And knows that soon the dawn will fly
In fire across the riven sky,

And gild the woodlands wet.

EDMUND W. Gosse. New Poems. (K. Paul.)

BABY EYES.

BLUE baby eyes, they are so sweetest sweet,
And yet they have not learned love's dear replies;
They beg not smiles, nor call for me, nor greet,
But clear, unshrinking, note me with surprise.
But, eyes that have your father's curve of lid,
You'll learn the look that he keeps somewhere hid :
You'll smile, grave baby eyes, and I shall see
The look your father keeps for only me.
AUGUSTA WEBSTER.
A Book of Rhyme. (Macmillan.)

I STOOD before the veil of the unknown, And round me in this life's dim theatre A great dim crowd was gathered, all astir With various interludes: I watched alone,

And saw a great hand lift the vail, then shone,
Descending from the innermost expanse,
A goddess to whose eyes my heart at once
Flew up with awe and love, a love full blown.
Naked and white she was, her fire-girt hair
Eddied on either side her straight high head,

Swaddled within her arms in lambent flame, An unborn life, a child-soul, did she bear, And laid it on a young wife's breast and fled, Yet no one wonder'd whence the strange gift came ! W. B. SCOTT. Poems: Illustrated. (Longmans.)

BABY'S BIRTHDAY.

WHEN all the Summer flowers were gone,
And leaves began to fall,

Heaven sent us one fair Autumn dawn

A lovelier flower than all. Fresh as from Eden's tree of life

Seem'd that wee pearl-white blossom,
Dropt, as by some good angel's hand,
Upon my darling's bosom.

Oh, joy no heart could e'er forget,
The hour of peril past,

When first my gaze the Mother's met,

Upon our first-born cast!

Her look, that woke a thousand thoughts,
But one all thoughts above,
Revealing that blest miracle,

A Mother's wondrous love.

For dearer grew those tender eyes,
And dearer that dear face,
And that new smile, Madonna-wise
That fill'd with light the place.
And then Life's sweetest words uprose
Upon my raptured ear;

The words "our child," breathed sweet and low,
Made us to each more dear.

Oh, words of deep significance,
Stirring the inmost heart;
Pleading the soul, with purer faith,

To choose the better part:
For what but leading our dear babe
The way the Saviour trod,
Should teach us more to lean on Him,
Our Father and our God?