And, in waking presently,

Brighter to beholder—
Differing in this, beside
(Sleeper, have you heard me?
Do you move and open wide
Your great eyes toward me?),
That while I you draw withal
From this slumber solely,
Me, from mine, an angel shall,
Trumpet-tongued and holy!

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

SWEET BABY, SLEEP.

SWEET baby, sleep! what ails my dear?
What ails my darling, thus to cry?
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear,
To hear me sing thy lullaby.
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear? What thing to thee can mischief do? Thy God is now thy Father dear,

His holy Spouse thy mother too. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Though thy conception was in sin,

A sacred bathing thou hast had; And though thy birth unclean hath been, A blameless babe thou now art made. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.

While thus thy lullaby I sing,

For thee great blessings ripening be; Thine eldest brother is a King,

And hath a kingdom bought for thee.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear;
For whosoever thee offends
By thy Protector threaten'd are,

And God and angels are thy friends.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

When God with us was dwelling here,
In little babes He took delight;
Such innocents as thou, my dear,
Are ever precious in His sight.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
A little infant once was He;

And strength in weakness then was laid Upon His virgin mother's knee,

That power to thee might be convey'd. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

In this thy frailty and thy need

He friends and helpers doth prepare, Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed, For of thy weal they tender are. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The King of kings, when He was born.

Had not so much for outward ease; By Him such dressings were not worn,

Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Within a manger lodged thy Lord,

Where oxen lay and asses fed: Warm rooms we do to thee afford, An easy cradle or a bed. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The wants that He did then sustain
Have purchased wealth, my babe, for
thee;

And by His torments and His pain
Thy rest and ease securèd be.
My baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou hast, yet more to perfect this,
A promise and an earnest got
Of gaining everlasting bliss,

Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not;
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

GEORGE WITHER.

CRADLE HYMN.

HUSH, my dear! Lie still and slumber!
Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without number,
Gently falling on thy head.

Singing many a tuneless song, Lavish of a heedless tongue ; Simple maiden, void of art, Babbling out the very heart, Yet abandon'd to thy will, Yet imagining no ill, Yet too innocent to blush; Like the linnet in the bush To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat, Chirping forth thy petty joys, Wanton in the change of toys, Like the linnet green in May Flitting to each bloomy spray ; Wearied then and glad of rest, Like the linnet in the nest ;This thy present happy lot This, in time will be forgot: Other pleasures, other cares, Ever-busy Time prepares ; And thou shalt in thy daughter see This picture, once, resembled thee.

AMBROSE PHILIPS.

To T. L. II.

SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS.

SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
My little, patient boy;
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.

I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears:
These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
I will not think of now;
And calmly, midst my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

THE LITTLE BLACK BOY

in the air.

BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST.

WE were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul would dare to sleep,--
It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.

'Tis a fearful thing in Winter

To be shattered in the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder: "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence,-
For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,
And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness,

Each one busy in his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted As he staggered down the stairs. But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand: "Isn't God upon the ocean

Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden,
And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchored safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear.

JAMES T. FIELDS.

LITTLE BELL.

He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

ANCIENT MARINER.

PIPED the blackbird on the beechwood

spray:

"Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, What's your name?" quoth he"What's your name? Oh stop and straight unfold,

Full of quips and wiles,

Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, All for love of that sweet face below,

Dimpled o'er with s.niles.

And the while the bonny bird did pour
His full heart out freely o'er and o'er
'Neath the morning skies,

In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine forth in happy overflow
From the blue, bright eyes.

Down the dell she tripped and through the glade,

Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, And from out the tree

Swung and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear,

While bold blackbird piped that all might hear

"Little Bell," piped he.

Little Bell sat down amid the fern"Squirrel, squirrel, to your task returnBring me nuts," quoth she.

Up, away the frisky squirrel hiesGolden wood-lights glancing in his eyesAnd adown the tree,

Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, In the little lap dropped one by oneHark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun! "Happy Bell," pipes he.

Little Bell looked up and down the glade"Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid,

Come and share with me!"

Down came squirrel eager for his fare| Down came bonny blackbird, I declare; Little Bell gave each his honest share

Ah the merry three!

"Little Bell," said she.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocksTossed aside her gleaming golden locks-

Bonny bird," quoth she,

"Sing me your best song before I go." "Here's the very finest song I know, Little Bell," said he.

And the blackbird piped; you never heard Half so gay a song from any bird

again,

'Neath the morning skies,

In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine out in happy overflow

From her blue, bright eyes.

By her snow-white cot at close of day Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to

pray