Thou dweller with the Unseen, who hast explored The immense unknown-thou to whom Death and

Heaven

Are mysteries no more, whose soul is stored

With knowledge for which men have vainly striven,

Beloved child! oh when shall I lie down

With thee beneath fair trees that cannot fade? When from the immortal rivers quench my thirst? Life's morning passeth on,

Noon speeds, and cometh the dim evening's shade And night-anon is every cloud dispersed,

And o'er the hills of Heaven the Eternal Day shall burst!

ON THE PORTRAIT OF A CHILD.

BARRY CORNWALL.

A YEAR—an age shall fade away,
(Ages of pleasure and of pain,)
And yet the face I see to-day
For ever shall remain—
In my heart and in my brain!
Not all the scalding tears of care
Shall wash away that vision fair ;
Not all the thousand thoughts that rise,
Not all the sights that dim mine eyes,
Shall e'er usurp the place
Of that little angel face!
But here it shall remain

For ever; and if joy or pain
Turn my troubled winter gaze
Back unto my hawthorn days,
There, amongst the hoarded past,
I shall see it to the last;

The only thing, save poet's rhyme,
That shall not own the touch of Time!

HYMN.

RIGHT REV. REGINALD HEBER, D.D.

By cool Siloam's shady rill

How sweet the lily grows!

How sweet the breath beneath the hill
Of Sharon's dewy rose !

Lo such the child whose early feet
The paths of peace have trod ;
Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,
Is upward drawn to God!

By cool Siloam's shady rill

The lily must decay;

The rose that blooms beneath the hill

Must shortly fade away.

And soon, too soon, the wintry hour

Of man's maturer age

Will shake the soul with sorrow's power,

And stormy passion's rage!

O Thou, whose infant feet were found
Within thy Father's shrine,

Whose years, with changeless virtue crowned,
Were all alike Divine,

Dependent on Thy bounteous breath,
We seek thy grace alone,

In childhood, manhood, age, and death,
To keep us still Thine own!

TO K. H. J.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

OH sweet new-comer to the changeful earth,
If, as some darkling seers have boldly guessed,
Thou hadst a being and a human birth,

And wert erewhile by human parents blest,
Long, long before thy present mother pressed
Thee, helpless stranger, to her fostering breast;
Then well it is for thee that thou canst not
Remember aught of face, or thing, or spot,
But all thy former life is clean forgot.
For sad it were to visit earth again,
And find it false and turbulent and vain,
So little better than it was of yore,

Yet nothing find that thou hast loved before,
And restless man in haste to banish thence
The
very shadow of old reverence.

But well for us that there is something yet
Which change cannot efface nor time forget:
The patient smile of passive babyhood,

The brook-like gurglings, murmuring after meaning,