A CHILD FALLEN ASLEEP AMID ITS SPORTS.

WEARIED with pleasure!

Oh, how deep

Such slumber seems to be,

Thou fairy creature! I could weep,

As thus I gaze on thee:

Ay, weep, and with most bitter tears,
Wrung from the spirit's core,

To think that in a few short years

Thou'lt sleep that sleep no more.

Wearied with pleasure! What a sound
To greet a world-worn ear!

Can we, who tread life's giddy round,
Sleep like the cherub here?

Alas! for us, joy's brightest hours

All fever as they fly,

And leave a blight,

-

as sun-struck flowers

Of too much glory die.

Wearied with pleasure! Does the wing

Of angels fan thy brow?

Sweet child, do birds about thee sing,
And blossoms round thee blow?

Is thy calm sleep with gladness rife?
Do stars above thee shine?

Oh, I would give whole years of life,

To dream such dreams as thine!

MISS PARDOE.

SONG OF DREAMS.

IN the the rosy glow of the evening cloud;
In the twilight's gloom;

In the sultry noon, when the flowers are bowed,
And the streams are dumb;

In the morning's beam, when the faint stars die

On the brightening flood of the azure sky,

We come !

Weavers of shadowy hopes and fears,

Dark'ners of smiles, bright'ners of tears,

We come!

We come where the babe on its mother's breast Lies in slumber deep;

We flit by the maiden's couch of rest,

And o'er her sleep

We float, like the honey-laden bees,

On the soft, warm breath of the languid breeze;

And sweep

Hues more beautiful than we bring

From her lip and cheek, for each wandering wing

To keep.

We linger about the lover's bower,

Hovering mute;

When he looks to the west for the sunset hour,

And lists for the foot

That falls so lightly on the grass,

We scarely can hear its echo pass;

And we put

In his heart all hopes, the radiant-crowned,

And hang sweet voices and tones around

His lute.

We sit by the miser's treasure-chest,

And near his bed;

And we watch his anxious heart's unrest;

And in mockery tread,

With a seeming heavy step about;

And laugh, when we hear his frightened shout

Of dread,

Lest the gnomes, who once o'er his gold did reign,

To his hoards, to claim it back again,

Have sped.

But a sunnier scene, and a brighter sky,

To-day are ours;

We have seen a youthful poet lie

By a fountain's showers,

With his upturned eyes, and his dreamy look,

Reading the April sky's sweet book

Writ by the hours;

And thinking those glorious thoughts that grow
Untutored up in life's freshest glow,

Like flowers.

We will catch the richest and brightest hue

Of the rainbow's rim,

And the purest cloud that amidst the blue

Of Heaven doth swim,

The clearest star-beam that shall be

In a dew-drop shrined, when the twilight sea