Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound

thee,

To find my neck; and lift up in thy fear,

"What have I said, my child? Will He not hear

thee

Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?
Will He not guard thy rest,

And, in the hush of holy midnight, hear thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

"I give thee to thy God!-the God that gave thee, A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!

And precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be His child!

"Therefore, farewell;-I go; my soul may fail me, As the stag panteth for the water-brooks, Yearning for thy sweet looks!

But thou, my first-born! droop not, nor bewail me ; Thou in the shadow of the rock shalt dwell,

The Rock of Strength-farewell!”

ON THE MEDALLION

(BY ALFRED COUNT D'ORSAY)

OF A BEAUTIFUL MUTE.

HENRY F. CHORLEY.

SPEAK not! the while delightedly we gaze
On gentle brow, and softly-flowing curls,
Silent those lips enclose their store of pearls,
Silent her childhood's passion and amaze.
Yes! she is mute !-but blame it not as wrong

Of fate her heart hath raptures all its own, For fear and guile are bosom-guests unknown, And fancies passing speech, in magic throng

People the soundless chambers of her brain. Well may that archly pensive smile constrain Our tenderest prayers with influence deep as mild : Look here! how sweet a marvel it hath wrought! The strong right hand of wit and courage taught With Love's own finest touch, to mould the Angel Child!

TO MY FRIEND'S FIRST-BORN.

ANONYMOUS.

HAD I all former joy forgot,
Crushed by a rude ungentle lot;
Were I grown old and crazed by care,
With tottering steps and forehead bare-
If years of anxious sorrowing,

Spared my poor lyre one only string,
The tone of that last string should be,
Dear new-born child! a song to welcome thee!

Aye welcome! vain in centuries dead,
When countless flocks the patriarchs fed,
Spoke angel's voice beneath some tree,
Shone angel's smile on laughing lea,
To fill man's heart with such delight
As thy proud parents know to-night,
While listening to thine infant cry,
And watching for thy dim awakening eye.

But leave we fancy's glowing spell,
Affection's simple thoughts to tell;

When thou wert born, within my heart
A fountain of new love did start

To life! and if the Highest cares
To gather up my feeble prayers,

He'll trace, dear child, a path for thee
As smooth as pilgrim's path can be,

Through earth's mixed crowd of shadows vain, Where pleasure wages ceaseless war with pain.

TO ADELAIDE.

BARRY CORNWALL.

CHILD of my heart! my sweet, beloved First-born!
Thou dove who tidings bring'st of calmer hours!
Thou rainbow who dost shine when all the showers
Are past, or passing! Rose which hath no thorn,
No spot, no blemish,-pure, and unforlorn!
Untouched, untainted! O, my flower of flowers!
More welcome than to bees are summer bowers,
To stranded seamen life-assuring morn!

Welcome, a thousand welcomes! Care, who clings
'Round all, seems loosening now its serpent fold:
New hope springs upward; and the bright World seems
Cast back into a youth of endless springs!
Sweet mother, is it so ? -or grow I old
Bewildered in divine Elysian dreams?