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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 you, 'tis the promise of morning,

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.


Welcome, bud beside the rose,
On whose stem our safety grows;
Welcome, little Saxon Guelph;
Welcome for thy own small self;
Welcome for thy father, mother,
Proud the one, and safe the other;
Welcome to three kingdoms; nay,
Such is thy potential day,
Welcome, little mighty birth,
To our human star, the earth!
Some have wish'd thee boy: and some
Gladly wait till boy shall come,
Counting it a genial sign,
When a lady leads the line.
What imports it, girl or boy?
England's old historic joy
Well might be content to see
Queens alone come after thee-
Twenty visions of thy mother,
Following, sceptred, each the other,
Sinking with their roses white
Ages of unborn delight.
What imports it who shall lead,
So that the good line succeed?
So that love and peace feel sure
Of old hate's discomfiture ?

Thee appearing by the rose,
Safety comes, and peril goes ;
Thee appearing, earth's new spring
Fears no winter's “grisly king."
Hope anew leaps up, and dances
In the hearts of human chances.
France, the brave, but too quick-blooded,
Wisely has her threat re-studied;
England now, as safe as she
From the strifes that need not be,
And the realms thus hush'd and still,
Earth with fragrant thoughts may fill,
Growing harvests of all good,
Day by day, as planets should,
Till it clap its hands, and cry,
Hail, matured humanity!
Earth has outgrown want and war,
Earth is now no childish star.

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
Nowise dost thou understand,
When he makes thee feebly grasp
His finger with a tiny clasp;
Nor dost know thy very mother's
Balmy bosom from another's,
Though thy small blind lips pursueit;
Nor the arms that draw thee to it;
Nor the eyes, that, while they fold thee,
Never can enough behold thee.
Mother true and good has she,
Little strong one, been to thee;
Nor with listless in-door ways
Weaken'd thee for future days;
But has done her strenuous duty
To thy brain and to thy beauty,
Till thou cam'st a blossom bright,
Worth the kiss of air and light!


O love of thanks for gentle deeds,
O sympathy with lowly needs,
O claims of care, and balms of song,
I fear'd ye meant to do me wrong,
And let me fade with stifled heart,
Ere time and I had leave to part!
But waking lately in the morn,
Just as a golden day was born,
So the dull clouds, by sickness wrought,
Began to break on heights of thought,
And fresh from out the Muse's sky
Three visions of a Queen had I-
Three in auspicious luck benign:
One dear, one gorgeous, one divine !

The first and let no spirit dare
That vision with my soul to share,
But such as know that angels spread
Their wings above a mother's bed)
The first disclosed her where she lay
In pillow'd ease; that blessed day
Which just had made her pale with joy,
Of the wish’d-for, princely boy,
Come to complete and stamp with man
The line which gentler grace began.
See, how they smooth her brows to rest,
Fond, meek, yet proud, and wholly blest ;
And how she may not speak the while,
But only sigh, and only smile,
And press his pressing hand, who vies
In bliss with her beloved eyes.

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,

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