ON THE PICTURE OF AN INFANT 0, pray to them softly, my baby, with me,

And say thou wouldst rather

They'd watch o'er thy father! While on the cliff with calin delight she kneels, For I know that the angels are whispering to And the blue vales a thousand joys recall,

thee.'' See, to the last, last verge her infant steals !

The dawn of the morning O, fly - yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall.

Saw Dermot returning, Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare,

And the wise wept with joy her babe's father to and the fond boy springs back to nestle there.

And closely caressing

Her child with a blessing,
Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering

with thee."


LEONIDAS of Alexandria (Greek). Translation




Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,

The wind blew wide the casement, and within
Wind of the western sea !

It was the loveliest picture ! a sweet child Over the rolling waters go,

Lay in its mother's arms, and drew its life, Come from the dying moon, and blow,

In pauses, from the fountain, the white round Blow him again to me;

Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark, While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm

Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red lips
Father will come to thee soon ;

Were parted, and the check upon the breast
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,
Father will come to thee soon ;

Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the flower,

Wore the same color, rich and warm and fresh :-
Father will come to his babe in the nest,

And such alone are beautiful. Its cyc,
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moou :

A full blue gem, most exquisitely set,
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. As if it knew even then that such a wreath

Looked archly on its worlıl, – the little imp,
Were not for all; and with its playrul hands
It drew aside the robe that hid its realm,

And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it laid

Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys,

And, laughing, slept. And while it slept, the tears In Ireland they have a pretty fancy, that, when a child smiles in its sleep, it is "talking with angels."

Of the sweet mother fell upon its check,

Tears such as fall from April skies, and bring A BABY was sleeping ;

The sunlight after. They were tears of joy ; Its mother was weeping;

And the true heart of that young mother then For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; Grew lighter, and she saug unc

nconsciously And the tempest was swelling

The silliest ballad-song that ever yet Round the fisherman's dwelling; Subdued the nursery's voices, and brought sleep And she cried, “Derniot, darling! O come back To fold her sabbath wings above its couch.

to me!”




Her beads while she numbereil

The baby still slumbered,
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee :

"O, blessed be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning,
For I know that the angels are whispering with


A LIGHTER scarf of richer fold

The morning flushed upon our sight,
And Evening trimmed her lamps of gold

From deeper springs of purer light;
And softer drips belewed the lear,
And whiter blossomis veiled the tree,

“ And while they are keeping
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

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And, ribbon-diademed, she reigns,

Commanding in an unknown tongue
The kitten spies her cunning ways,
The patient cur romps in her plays,
And glimpses of her earlier days
Are seen in picture books of fays.

To fondle all things doth she choose,

And when she gets, what some one sends, A trifling gift of tiny shoes,

She kisses both as loving friends ;
For in her eyes this orb of care,
Whose hopes are heaps of frosted hair,
Is but a garland, trim and fair,
Of cherubs twining in the air.

0, from a soul suffused with tears

Of trust thou mayst be spared the thorn Which it has felt in other years,

Across the morn our Loril was born,
I waft thee blessings ! At thy side
May his invisible seraphs glide ;
And tell thee still, whate'er betide,
For thee, for thine, for all, He died !



O, THOSE little, those little blue shoes !
Those shoes that no little feet use.

O the price were high

That those shoes would buy,
Those little blue unused shoes !

For they hold the small shape of feet
That no more their mother's eyes meet,

That, by God's good will,

Years since, grew still,
And ceased from their totter so sweet.

And O, since that baby slept,
So hushed, how the mother has kept,

With a tearful pleasure,

That little dear treasure,
And o'er them thought and wept !

For they mind her forevermore
Of a patter along the floor ;

And blue eyes she sees

Look up from her knees
With the look that in life they wore.

As they lie before her there,
There babbles from chair to chair

A little sweet face

That's a gleam in the place, With its little gold curls of hair.

Then () wonder not that her heart From all else would rather part

Than those tiny blue shoes

That no little feet use, And whose sight makes such fond tears start!


In other springs our life may be

In bannered bloom unfurled, But never, never match our wee White Rose of all the world.


OUR WEE WHITE ROSE. All in our marriage garden

Grew, smiling up to God, A bonnier flower than ever

Suckt the green warmth of the sod; 0, beautiful unfathomably

Its little life unfurled ; And crown of all things was our wee

White Rose of all the world.

WILLIE WINKIE. Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, Are the weans in their bed ? - for it's now ten


From out a balmy bosom

Our bud of beauty grew; It fed on smiles for sunshine,

On tears for daintier dew : Aye nestling warm and tenderly,

Our leaves of love were curled So close and close about our wee

White Rose of all the world.

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben ?
The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen,
The doug 's speldered on the floor, and disna gio

a cheep; But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa'

asleep. Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue:- glow'rin' like

the moon, Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a

cock, Skirlin' like a kenna-what – wauknin' sleepin'

folk !

With mystical faint fragrance

Our house of life she filled; Revealed each hour some fairy tower

Where wingèd hopes might build ! We saw — though none like us might see

Such precious promise pearled Upon the petals of our wee

White Rose of all the world.

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean 's in a creel ! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her

thrums : Hey, Willie Winkie ! - See, there he comes !

But evermore the halo

Of angel-light increased,
Like the mystery of moonlight

That folds some fairy feast.
Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently

Our darling bud upcurled,
And dropt i' the grave – God's lap - our wee

White Rose of all the world.

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Our Rose was but in blossom,

Our life was but in spring, When down the solemn midnight

We heard the spirits sing, “Another bud of infancy

With holy dews impearled!” And in their hands they bore our wee

White Rose of all the world.

WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond,

My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ;
Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.

You scarce could think so small a thing

Could leave a loss so large ;
Her little light such shadow fling

From dawn to sunset's marge.

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years,

And natural piety that leaned to heaven ; Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,

Yet patient to rebuke when justly given; Obedient, easy to be reconciled, | And meekly cheerful ; such wert thou, my

child !


Not willing to be left – still by my side, And proud the lifting of thy stately head, Haunting my walks, while summer-day was And the firm bearing of thy couscious tread.

dying ; Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide

Different from both! yet each succeeding claim Through the dark room where I was sadly

I, that all other love had been forswcaring, lying;

Forthwith admitted, equal and the same ; Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,

Nor injured cither by this love's comparing, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the fevered cheek.

Nor stole a fraction for the newer call,

But in the mother's heart found room for all ! O boy ! of such as thou are oftenest made

Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower,
No strength in all thy freshness, prone to fade,
And bending weakly to the thunder-shower ;

Still, round the love, thy heart found force to

Is there, when the winds are singing And clung, like woodbine slaken in the wind ! In the happy summer time,

When the raptured air is ringing Then thou, my merry love, – bold in thy glee, With Earth's inusic heavenward spriuging,

Under the bouglı, or by the tirelight dancing, Forest chirp, and village chime, – With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free,

Is there, of the sounds that float Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glan Unsighingly, a single note cing,

Half so sweet and clear and wild Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth,

As the laughter of a child ? Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth!

Listen! and be now delighted : Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of joy, Moru hath touched her golden strings ; Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip re Earth and Sky their vows have plighted ; soundeth;

Life and Light are reunited Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy,

Amid countless carollings; And the glad heart from which all grief re Yet, delicious as they are, boundeth;

There's a sound that's sweeter far,
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply

One that makes the heart rejoice
Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye. More than all, the human voice !.
And thine was many an art to win and bless, Organ finer, deeper, clearer,
The cold and stern to joy and foudness warm Though it be a stranger's tone,

Than the winds or waters dearer,
The coaxing smile, the frequent soft caress,

More enchanting to the hearer, The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarm

For it answereth to his own. ing!

But, of all its witching words, Again my heart a new alfection found,

Sweeter than the song of birds, But thonght thout love with thee had reached its Those are sweetest, bubbling wild bound.

Through the laughter of a child. At length Troy camest, thou, the last and Harmonies from time-touched towers, least,

Haunted strains from rivulets, Nicknamed “the Emperor" by thy laughing Huni of bees among the lowers, brothers,

Rustling leaves, and silver showers, Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast,

These, erelong, the ear forgets ; And thou didst seek to rule and sway the But in mine there is a sound others,

Ringing on the whole year round, Mingling with every playful infant wile

Heart-deep laughter that I heard A mimic majesty that made us smile.

Ere my child could speak a word. And O, most like a regal child wert thou !

Ah ! 't was heard by ear far purer, du eye of resolute and successful scheming !

Fondlier formed to catch the strain, – Fair shoulders, curling lips, and dauntless brow, Ear of one whose love is surer, Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dream Hers, the mother, the endurer ing;

of the deepest share of pain ;

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