INFANT JOY.

"I have no name

I am but two days old."

What shall I call thee? "I happy am,

Joy is my name."

Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty joy!

Sweet joy but two days old.

Sweet joy I call thee,
Thou dost smile,

I sing the while,

Sweet joy befall thee!

WILLIAM BLAKE.

TOO LATE.

COULD ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,
In the old likeness that I knew,

I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas:
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true!

Never a scornful word should grieve ye:
I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do
Sweet as your smile on me shone ever,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true!

CHANGES.

O! to call back the days that are not!

My eyes were blinded, your words were few. Do you know the truth now, up in Heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

I never was worthy of you, Douglas,
Not half worthy the like of you!

Now all men beside seem to me like shadows;
I love you, Douglas, tender and true.

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas; Drop forgiveness from Heaven like dew,

As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas : Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

DINAH MARIA MULOCH

CHANGES.

WHOM first we love, you know, we seldom wed.
Time rules us all. And Life, indeed, is not
The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead.
And then, we women cannot choose our lot.

Much must be borne which it is hard to bear;
Much given away which it were sweet to keep.
God help us all! who need, indeed, His care.
And yet, I know the Shepherd loves his sheep.

CHANGES.

My little boy begins to babble now
Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer.
He has his father's eager eyes, I know;
And, they say, too, his mother's sunny hair.

But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee,
And I can feel his light breath come and go,
I think of one (Heaven help and pity me!)
Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago:

Who might have been . . . ah what, I dare not think! We are all changed. God judges for us best.

God help us do our duty, and not shrink,

And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest!

But blame us women not, if some appear

Too cold at times; and some too gay and light.
Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear.
Who knows the past? and who can judge us right?

Ah! were we judged by what we might have been,
And not by what we are-too apt to fall!
My little child-he sleeps and smiles between
These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall know all.

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.

A HEALTH.

I FILL this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone:

A woman of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air,
"Tis less of Earth than Heaven.

Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds;
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words:
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burdened bee
Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns,
The idol of past years.

ABSENCE.

On her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts

A sound must long remain;
But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,

When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life's, but hers.

Her health and would on earth there stood

Some more of such a frame,

That life might be all poetry,

And weariness a name.

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY.

ABSENCE.

WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?

How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet time of grace?

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
Weary with longing? Shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
Cheat myself to forget the present day?