Dream, baby, dream!

Thine eyelids quiver.
Know'st thou the theme
Of yon soft river?

It saith, "Be calm, be sure,
Unfailing, gentle, pure!
So shall thy life endure,

Like mine, for ever!"

TO MY CHILD.

RICHARD CHENEVIX FRENCH.

THY gladness makes me thankful every way;
To look upon thy gladness makes me glad;
While yet in part it well might render sad,
As thinking that we too might sport and play,
And keep, like thee, continual holiday,
If we retained the things which once we had,
If we, like happy Neophites, were clad
Still in baptismal stoles of white array.
And yet the gladness of the innocent child
Has not more matter for our thankful glee
Than the dim sorrows of the man defiled;
Since both in sealing one blest truth agree;
Joy is of God, but heaviness and care

Of our own hearts, and what has harboured there.

L

BABY'S SONG.

H. M. R.

Low-murmured words, I hear, mother!
When I am fast asleep,

Which mingle in my dreams, mother!
And almost make me weep.

Soft kisses too I feel, mother!
Warm on my lips and eyes,
And a gentle breath upon my cheek,
That on thy bosom lies.

The little angels round me,

My soul with them would keep,

But

my heart is linked with thine, mother! And I waken from my sleep.

I wake-and bending o'er me

Thine eyes look into mine—

The whispering voice, the loving kiss,
Sweet mother! they are thine.

WELSH WANDERER'S SONG

To her Baby, cradled in the Boughs of a Tree.

SLEEP, my child! and take thy rest,
Sleep! as on thy mother's breast,
Sleep! my bird, within thy nest,
Nor restless move.

God will guard thee with his care;
All things good and all things fair
Bless thee in thy leafy lair

With looks of love.

Sleep, my child! and take thy rest,
Sleep! as on thy mother's breast,
Sleep! my bird, within thy nest,
Nor restless move.

Though the sun with scorching heat
Try to pierce thy green retreat,
Like soft wings the branches meet
To shade my dove.

Then sleep, my child: O take thy rest,
Sleep! as on thy mother's breast,
Sleep! my bird, within thy nest,
Nor restless move!

Monthly Repository.

MICHA E L.

WORDSWORTH.

[EXTRACT.]

BUT to Michael's heart

This son of his old age was yet more dear—

Less from instinctive tenderness,—the same

Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all—
Than that a child, more than all other gifts
That earth can offer to declining man,

Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
And stirrings of inquietude, when they

By tendency of nature needs must fail.
Exceeding was the love they bore to him,
His heart and his heart's joy!

TO THE NEW-BORN.

MRS. HEMANS.

A BLESSING on thy head, thou child of many hopes and fears!

A rainbow-welcome thine hath been, of mingled smiles and tears.

Thy father greets thee unto life, with a full and chastened heart,

For a solemn gift from God thou com'st, all precious as thou art!

I see thee not asleep, fair boy, upon thy mother's

breast,

Yet well I know how guarded there shall be thy rosy rest;

And how her soul with love and prayer and gladness will o'erflow,

While bending o'er thy soft-sealed eyes, thou dear one, well I know!

A blessing on thy gentle head! and blessed thou art in truth,

For a home where God is felt awaits thy childhood and thy youth: