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Here is another
CRADLE SONG. Peacefully slumber, my own darling son: Close thy dear eyelids, and sweetly sleep on; All things lie buried in silence profound : Sleep, I will scare e'en the gnats floating round. 'Tis now, my dearest, thy life's early May ; Ah! but to-morrow is not as to-day. Trouble and care round thy curtains shall soar, Then, child, thou'lt slumber so sweetly no more. Angels of heaven, as lovely as thou, Float o'er thy cradle and smile on thee now; Later, when angels around thee shall stray, 'Twill be to wipe but thy tear-drops away. Peacefully slumber, my own darling son ; I'll watch by thy bedside till dark night is gone, Careless how early, how late it may be: Mother's love wearies not, watching o'er thee.
From THE GERMAN. An interesting birthday anecdote is told of that once fashionable wit and improvisatore, Theodore Hook. On one occasion he had prolonged his afterdinner improvisation to an early hour in the morning; when the new-born son of the host was brought into the room in the arms of his nurse, and the window shutters being thrown open, the bright morning rays burst in upon the scene of the night's merriment. Hook's tone was changed, and he concluded his song with this address to the child :“ See the sun, now the heavens adorning,
Diffusing health, wisdom, and light;
To us, 'tis the parting good night.””
The graceful and genial writer of the next three poems, Leigh Hunt, has eloquently expressed in them the feelings of many thousands of Her Majesty's attached subjects at the periods of the birth of the Princess Royal, the Prince of Wales, and the Princess Alice.
TO THE INFANT PRINCESS ROYAL.
Welcome, bud beside the rose,
Thee appearing by the rose,
But behold where thou dost lie, Heeding nought, remote or nigh! Nought of all the news we sing Dost thou know, sweet ignorant thing; Nought of planets' love, nor peoples, Nor doth heed the giddy steeples Carolling of thee and thine, As if heaven had raind them wine; Nor dost care for all the pains Of ushers and of chamberlains, Nor the doctor's learned looks, Nor the very bishop's books, Nor the lace that wraps thy chin, No, nor for thy rank, a pin. To thy healthy self a pleasure, To the world a balm and treasure !
E’en thy father's loving hand
PRINCE OF WALES.
The first and let no spirit dare
Vanish'd that still and sacred room; And round me, like a pomp in bloom, Was a proud chapel, heavenly bright, With lucid glooms of painted light, Hushing the thought with holy story, And flags that hung asleep in glory, And scutcheons of emblazon bold, The flames of trees of memories old. And living human flowers were there, Men colouring the angelic air ; Young beauties mixed with warriors grey, And choristers in lily array, And princes, and the genial king, With the wise companioning ; And the mild manhood, by whose side Walks daily forth his two-years bride ; And she herself, the rose of all, Who wears the world's first coronal,