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ACROSTIC AND SONNET

To Her Majesty the Queen,

ON HER 47TH BIRTHDAY, MAY 24, 1866.

QUEEN of our hearts as of our lands, thou knowest Upon what stubborn soil thy seal is set.

England loves thee for all the good thou showest: Exalted evil she ne'er worshipp'd yet,

No crowned selfishness her love may get.

VICTORIA, a nobler power is thine,

In purest, tenderest womanhood ensphered:
Centre of all the nation holds endear'd,
Thou, and thy unforgotten love benign.
Over these isles thy name is as a spell
Ringing to every clime below the sun;
every home the people love to tell

In

All thy good deeds—and sure they know them well: First of thy name, thou hast for it undying honour

won!

MARY BENNETT.

PART I.

BIRTHDAYS OF EARLY LIFE.

BIRTHDAYS! A magical sound for the young and happy. At that sound their eyes sparkle with anticipations of delight; their cheeks kindle into warmer, lovelier life; and their feet are ready to bound from the earth in a thousand light and airy motions of fantastic grace.

Charles Lamb, in one of his admirable essays, regrets that "in the gradual desuetude of old observances, this custom of solemnizing our proper birthday hath nearly passed away, or is left to children, who reflect nothing at all about the matter, nor understand anything beyond the cake and the orange."

There is just matter for regret that birthday observances are not kept up among us with more earnestness, if only for the sake of the children, who still represent to us all that is pure, fresh, bright, loving and lovely-" for of such is the kingdom of Heaven," and who, I think, with all respect for Elia, do understand something of birthdays beyond the cake and the orange; they

do understand on these occasions something of the importance of their own existence, though they cannot enter into its mysteries; something of the sweetness and preciousness of the love of the family; something, too, of the progress of time towards eternity, and perhaps much more than we can know, for childhood itself is a mystery.

CHILDHOOD.

O thou bright thing, fresh from the hand of God,
The motions of thy dancing limbs are swayed
By the unceasing music of thy being!

Nearer I seem to God when looking on thee.
"Tis ages since He made His youngest star,
His hand was on thee as 'twere yesterday,
Thou later revelation! Silver stream,
Breaking with laughter from the lake divine,
Whence all things flow. O bright and singing babe,
What wilt thou be hereafter?

ALEXANDER SMITH.

That is the question which makes the birthdays of childhood so touching to those who look on the bright groups gathered under the evening lamps, dressed like so many fairies, and bubbling over with innocent mirth. Hope and Fear alike suggest the solemn thought, What will these be hereafter?

No doubt the cake and the orange are the chief things to be considered in childhood's birthdays; and plentifully they should be provided, too, with all the exhilarating accessories; for children are, one and all, of the mind of Mendelssohn, the great musician, who did not like "a half-and-half celebration."

It is true that—

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