The patient smile of passive babyhood, The brook-like gurglings, murmuring after meaning, As dewy moss, that swathes the swelling roses, And thus sweet maid! thy voice, so blithe and clear, Which Homer may in ancient days have known, And blindness shapes a fair world of its own. The child shall be the same sweet creature still. THOU, Baby Innocence !-unseen of me, I know thou must be innocent and fair, Which most prevails, the mother or the sire? Are thine eyes like thy father's-made of fire, Keen to discern, and dauntless to inquire? Or, like thy mother's, meek as summer eve, Is thy chin cleft as sunny side of peach? Thy little hands are busy,—that I know; But what's the inner mood that stirs them so? Not knowing what thou art, I deem it meet FAIN Would I dive to find my infant self The prettiest speech-'tis in my mind engrained - 'Twas a grave saw affectionately feign'd- Sweet babe, thou art not yet or good or bad, Yet God is round thee, in thee, and above thee; We love, because we love thee, little lad, And pray thou may'st be good-because we love thee. ON AN INFANT'S HAND. WHAT is an infant but a germ, Whose present claim of love consists Joy that is not for this or that, |