TO ONE OF THE AUTHOR'S CHILDREN ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

Aug. 27, 1825.

MRS. HEMANS.

THOU wakest from happy sleep to play

With bounding heart, my boy!

Before thee lies a long bright day
Of summer and of joy.

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream
To cloud thy fearless eye;—
Long be it thus-life's early stream
Should still reflect the sky.

Yet ere the cares of life lie dim
On thy young spirit's wings,

Now in thy morn forget not Him

From whom each pure thought springs!

So in the onward vale of tears

Where'er thy path may be,

When strength hath bowed to evil years-
He will remember thee.

THE PEASANT CHILDREN.

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE.

R. EDMONSTONE.

EVERYWHERE

everywhere,

Like the butterfly's silver wings,

That are seen by all in the summer air,
We meet with these beautiful things!

And the low sweet lisp of the baby-child

By a thousand hills is heard,

And the voice of the young heart's laughter wild As the voice of the singing-bird!

The cradle rocks in the peasant's cot

As it rocks in the noble's hall,

And the brightest gift in the loftiest lot
Is a gift that is given to all ;-

For the sunny light of childhood's eyes
Is a boon like the common air,

And like the sunshine of the skies,
It falleth everywhere!

They tell us this old earth no more

By angel feet is trod,

That they bring not now, as they brought of yore,

Oh! each of these young human flowers

God's own high message bears,

And we are walking, all our hours,

With "angels unawares!"

By stifling street and breezy hill

We meet their spirit-mirth :

That such bright shapes should linger till

They take the stains of earth!

Oh! play not those a blessed part,
To whom the boon is given

To leave their errand with the heart,
And straight return to heaven!

THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD.

FROM "THE BIRTHDAY GIFT."

MISS M. A. BROWNE.

THEY speak of thee, my child, they speak of thee, Thou whom love could not save:

Thou, who art lying in the silent grave, Far, far away from me!

They think, because they see my brow is calm,

That I can bear to hear

Thy name; that when I shed the lonely tear, 'Tis turned by time to balm.

Alas, alas! my child, my precious child!
I struggle to be still;

I pray that I may bow to Heaven's high will, With meekness undefiled;

But, spite of all my words of hope and trust,
Fresh as it ever was,

I have the truth before me,-thou, alas!
Art lying in the dust.

In the cold dust, thine eyes, thy sunny hair,

Thy lips, thy little hands!

Child, child! around my heart are still thy bands, They draw me to thee there.

My first, my only babe! 'Tis agony,

This aching at my heart;

Whene'er I think on what thou wast and art,

Mine own and lost to me!

Come back to me, my child! but for one hour,
Back to thy mother's arms,

In all thy spotless innocence and charms,
My bright, my budding flower!

But bring no light from heaven around thee shed; Come as thou wast on earth,

My blessing! with thy childish voice of mirth, And shout and dancing tread.

Yet ere thou goest, put on thy glory, child!

Let me behold thy brow,

With the unfading flowers that crown it now,

Beaming with radiance mild.

And oh my babe, if that above forgiven

Thy mother's sorrows be,

Pray, pray for her, that she may come to thee,

And share thy bliss in heaven!