When wiser, meeker thoughts are given,
And I have learnt to lift my face,
Remembering earth's greenest place

The color draws from Heaven.

If something saith for earthly pain,
But more for heavenly promise free,
That I who was, would shrink to be
That happy child again.

JOYOUSNESS OF CHILDREN.

How should it be otherwise? I can bear a melancholy man, but never a melancholy child. Into whatever quagmire the former sinks, he may raise his eyes either to the realm of reason, or to that of hope; but the little child sinks and perishes in a single black poison-drop of the present time. Only imagine a child conducted to the scaffold,Cupid in a German coffin, or fancy a butterfly crawling like a caterpillar, with his four wings pulled off, and you will feel what I mean.

TO MY CHILDREN SLEEPING.

WHAT holy calmness brooded o'er the nest,
Where four-and each a treasure-

sleeping lay,

Treasures in caskets of frail human clay,
But fair, though frail, by Beauty's seal impressed.
The long, dark eyelashes on Willie's cheek

Tempered the damask blush that mantled there,
But sleep could scarce subdue the ardent air
Where all the day's past feelings clearly speak.
On Francis' saint-like paleness, halcyon Peace
Had left the impression of his latest prayer;
And they who paused to gaze-few could forbear —
Felt holy thoughts and heavenly hopes increase.
Bend o'er the couch of childhood, - 't will control
Passion's wild storm, and purify thy soul.

Arthur's luxuriant curls, and front of snow,
Where darkly delicate his eyebrows shone,
His loving face that sculpture well might own,
Where healthful joy diffused its purest glow,
By Clarence's softer elegance were laid ;
Whose bended neck confiding love portrayed;

So droops the slight laburnum, fond to blend
Where the rich clusters of the lilac tend.
But in the inmost chamber one reclines,

A single bird within her downy nest;

A pearl detached, - too precious for the rest :
Round no fond neck her polished arm entwines,
Lovely and lone, this sweeter blossom lies,
Just lent to earth,

but ripening for the skies.

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON,

AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.

THOU happy, happy elf!

(But stop,

first let me kiss away that tear !)

Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he 's poking peas into his ear!)

Thou merry, laughing sprite!

With spirits feather light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin,

(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin !)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air,

(The door! the door! he 'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he 'll set his pinafore afire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents. (Hang the boy!
There goes my ink!)

Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble, that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint ?)

With

1

Thou young domestic dove!

(He 'll have that jug off with another shove !) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are those torn clothes his best?)

Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)

Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk

With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy, and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the moon, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!)