TODDLING MAY.

BY W. C. BENNETT.

Five pearly teeth and a soft blue eye,
A sinless eye of blue

That is dim or is bright, it scarce knows why,
That, baby dear, is you:

And parted hair of a pale, pale gold,
That is priceless every curl,

And a boldness shy and a fear half bold,
Ay that's my baby girl.

A small, small frock, as the snowdrop white,
That is worn with a tiny pride,

With a sash of blue, by a little sight

With a baby wonder eyed,

And a pattering pair of restless shoes

Whose feet have a tiny fall,

That not for the world's coined wealth we'd lose

That, Baby May, we call.

A rocker of dolls with staring eyes
That a thought of sleep disdain,

That with shouts of tiny lullabies
Are by'd and by'd in vain;

A drawer of carts with baby noise,

With strainings and pursed up brow,

Whose hopes are cakes and whose dreams are toys,

Ay, that's my baby now.

A sinking of heart, a shuddering dread,
Too deep for a word or tear-

Or a joy whose measure may not be said,
As the future is hope or fear;

A sumless venture, whose voyage's fate
We would and yet would not know,
Is she whom we dower with love as great
As is perilled by hearts below.

Oh what as her tiny laugh is dear,

Or our days with gladness girds!
Or what is the sound we love to hear
Like the joy of her baby words!
Oh pleasure our pain and joys our fears
Should be, could the future say,
Away with sorrow-time has no tears
For the eyes of Baby May.

Osborne Place, Blackheath.

devil compels him to sweat and-starve! The very corn which he plants in the fields, and which at this moment I can see waving its beautiful blades, and looking in the distance like green ripples dancing upon the bosom of so many breezy miniature lakes, this very corn, I say, intended by a generous Deity for the sustenance of the poor la borer, as a glad reward for his faithful services, does Mammon grab with his accursed fingers-and tax, forsooth!

Ah! how earnestly do I wish these sad pictures of human misery did not existthat they did not force their sorrowful countenances into every joyful company, and plead with their dumb eyes for sympathy and redress. It mars our happiness to think that such things are to think that for these poor Children of Toil there is no May-day holiday-no jubilee of Nature at which their hearts can shout and be glad. Yet we, who are able, do well to follow the old custom of making wreaths and garlands-and, above all, of gathering flowers to deck the beautiful maiden Queen of the Festival. It is a simple and touching ceremony that !—and hides I know not what heavenly meanings.

And now, O friends, I greet you, one and all, before this Altar of Flowers, which Nature, with her invisible fingers, has erected upon the bosom of the meek earth. The grass is still wet at our feet, and the dew-drops sparkle in the blossom of the trees and gem the tresses of the lady birch, like stars in the streaming hair of Berenice in heaven! The Thrush is singing his morning hymn, and the lark is soaring away into the skies to tell God how happy he is! There is a freshness about all living things, a love and deep unutterable joy, which invites us to become one with them: And whilst we wander over the fields and hills, in rapturous heartfelt thankfulness for so sweet a privilege, let us resolve that this day shall be the date of a new moral spring to usand that whatever is venerable, just, and true, shall find henceforth a sacred welcome to our hearts.

April 17, 1848.

LINES.

(IMPROMPTU.)

As round the rose the honeysuckle twines,
As on the olive rest the pliant vines,

So constant lovers to each other fly
For comfort and sweet sympathy;

And when rude blasts the honeysuckle tear

From its support, those very winds shall bear
The fragrance of the creeper to the rose ;-
So parted lovers hear each others vows.

SONG.

BY THE EDITOR.

How vain 'tis to grieve at one's lot,
We cannot re-call what is past,
Why sigh for the hours that are not,
While the present is flying so fast.
Though clouds may o'ershadow the sky
And dim the bright sun for an hour,

They break into rainbows and lie

Like pearls on each elegant flower.

Oh! thus may our life pass away,

Though our hearts for a moment be sad,
Let HOPE be the sun to our day,

The star-light to gleam through our shade
And banish all sighing and care;
If FRIENDSHIP its happiness lend,

Forget the sad name of despair

In the antidote found in A FRIEND.

J. B. L.

devil compels him to sweat and-starve! The very corn which he plants in the fields, and which at this moment I can see waving its beautiful blades, and looking in the distance like green ripples dancing upon the bosom of so many breezy miniature lakes, this very corn, I say, intended by a generous Deity for the sustenance of the poor la borer, as a glad reward for his faithful services, does Mammon grab with his accursed fingers-and tax, forsooth!

Ah! how earnestly do I wish these sad pictures of human misery did not existthat they did not force their sorrowful countenances into every joyful company, and plead with their dumb eyes for sympathy and redress. It mars our happiness to think that such things are to think that for these poor Children of Toil there is no May-day holiday-no jubilee of Nature at which their hearts can shout and be glad. Yet we, who are able, do well to follow the old custom of making wreaths and garlands-and, above all, of gathering flowers to deck the beautiful maiden Queen of the Festival. It is a simple and touching ceremony that !—and hides I know not what heavenly meanings.

*

And now, O friends, I greet you, one and all, before this Altar of Flowers, which Nature, with her invisible fingers, has erected upon the bosom of the meek earth. The grass is still wet at our feet, and the dew-drops sparkle in the blossom of the trees and gem the tresses of the lady birch, like stars in the streaming hair of Berenice in heaven! The Thrush is singing his morning hymn, and the lark is soaring away into the skies to tell God how happy he is! There is a freshness about all living things, a love and deep unutterable joy, which invites us to become one with them: And whilst we wander over the fields and hills, in rapturous heartfelt thankfulness for so sweet a privilege, let us resolve that this day shall be the date of a new moral spring to usand that whatever is venerable, just, and true, shall find henceforth a sacred welcome to our hearts.

April 17, 1848.

LINES.

(IMPROMPTU.)

As round the rose the honeysuckle twines,
As on the olive rest the pliant vines,

So constant lovers to each other fly
For comfort and sweet sympathy;

And when rude blasts the honeysuckle tear

From its support, those very winds shall bear
The fragrance of the creeper to the rose ;-
So parted lovers hear each others vows.

SONG.

BY THE EDITOR.

How vain 'tis to grieve at one's lot,
We cannot re-call what is past,
Why sigh for the hours that are not,
While the present is flying so fast.
Though clouds may o'ershadow the sky
And dim the bright sun for an hour,

They break into rainbows and lie

Like pearls on each elegant flower.

Oh! thus may our life pass away,

Though our hearts for a moment be sad,

Let HOPE be the sun to our day,

The star-light to gleam through our shade
And banish all sighing and care;
If FRIENDSHIP its happiness lend,
Forget the sad name of despair

In the antidote found in A FRIEND.

J. B. L.