Take her up tenderly Lift her with care! Young, and so fair! Ere her limbs, frigidly, Decently, kindly, Smoothe and compose them; Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, Perishing gloomily, Into her rest! Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast! Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour! THOMAS HOOD. SONG. 189 Song. HE heath this night must be my bed, TH The bracken curtain for my head, My lullaby the warder's tread, Far, far from love and thee, Mary; I may not, dare not, fancy now A time will come with feeling fraught! Shall be a thought on thee, Mary! SIR WALTER SCOTT. Giving in Marriage.-(Songs of Seven.) - To watch, and then to lose :- To hear, to heed, to wed, And with thy lord depart, To hear, to heed, to wed, This while thou didst, I smiled; For now it was not God who said, "Mother, give ME thy child." O fond, O fool and blind, To God I gave with tears; But when a man like grace would find, O fond, O fool and blind: God guards in happier spheres ; To hear, to heed, to wed, Fair lot that maidens choose; Thy mother's tenderest words are said, Thy face no more she views. Thy mother's lot, my dear, She doth in nought accuse: Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, To love-and then to lose. JEAN INGELOW MY BIRD. 191 E My Bird. 'RE last year's moon had left the sky And folded, oh! so lovingly, Her tiny wings upon my breast. From morn till evening's purple tinge, There's not in Ind a lovelier bird; Broad earth owns not a happier nest; O God! thou hast a fountain stirred, Whose waters nevermore shall rest. This beautiful, mysterious thing, This seeming visitant from heaven, The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, A silent awe is in my room, I tremble with delicious fear; Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise; Hear, O my God! one earnest prayer; Room for my bird in Paradise, And give her angel-plumage there! EMILY C. JUDSON. Philip, my King. Who bears upon his baby brow the round and top of sovereignty.' L OOK at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my King! For round thee the purple shadow lies Of babyhood's regal dignities. Lay on my neck thy tiny hand With love's invisible sceptre laden; I am thine Esther to command, Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, When those beautiful lips are suing, For we that love, ah! we love so blindly, I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, Philip, my King! Ay, there lies the spirit, all sleeping now, That may rise like a giant, and make men bow As to one God-throned amidst his peers. My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer Let me behold thee in coming years! Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my King— |