We see with reverence our wee flower

Its little life begin,

Fresh from the great Creator's hand,

Untainted yet by sin :

And cannot wonder at the words

Of Christ, in comfort given"Suffer ye them to come to Me,

For even of such is Heaven!

And so, though Summer flowers were gone,
And leaves began to fall,

The blossom of that Autumn dawn

Still compensates for all :

And we would praise the gracious Power

That did the gift impart,

Brightening, with Love's most precious flower, The garden of the Heart.

ROWLAND BROWN. Songs and Poems. (D. Bogue.)

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Aн, lucky tyrant! Happy lot!

Fair watchers without number, Who sweetly sing beside his cot,

And hush him off to slumber; White hands in wait to smooth so neat

His pillow when it's rumpled

A couch of rose leaves soft and sweet,
Not one of which is crumpled!

J. ASHBY-STERRY.
Boudoir Ballads. (Chatto and Windus.)

A CHILD of brighter than the morning's birth,
And lovelier than all smiles that may be smiled
Save only of little children undefiled,
Sweet, perfect, witless of their own dear worth,
Live rose of love, mute melody of mirth,

Glad as a bird is when the woods are mild,
Adorable as is nothing save a child,
Hails with wide eyes and lips his life on earth,
His lovely life with all its heaven to be.

A. C. SWINBURNE.
Studies in Song. (Chatto and Windus.)

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.

Songs of Innocence and Experience. (Pickering.)

A BABY'S THOUGHTS.

WHO can tell what a baby thinks?
Who can follow the gossamer links

By which the mannikin feels his way
Out from the shore of the great unknown,
Blind, and wailing, and alone,

Into the light of day ?—

Out from the shore of the unknown sea,
Tossing in pitiful agony-

Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,
Specked with the barks of little souls-
Barks that were launched on the other side,
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide!
What does he think of his mother's eyes?
What does he think of his mother's hair?
What of the cradle roof that flies
Forward and backward through the air?
What does he think of his mother's breast;
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,
Seeking it ever with fresh delight—

Cup of his life and couch of his rest?
What does he think when her quick embrace
Presses his hand and buries his face
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell
With a tenderness she can never tell,

Though she murmur the words
Of all the birds-

Words she has learned to murmur wel!?
Now he thinks he'll go to sleep!
I can see the shadow creep

O gracious God!
That, of no grace beguiled,

O this make sure,

The woman be in soul as pure

As now she is, a child !

W. C. BENNETT. Baby May, &c. (K. Paul.)

AN INFANT'S SWAY.

WHAT strange mysterious power is this,
That links thy tender life with mine-
That makes of thee a source of bliss,
Than aught I've known still more divine;
That makes thy will, so weak, so strong,
A law to which I freely bow,

And day and night with ardour long
Some sacrifice for thee to show;

That makes me watch with anxious care
The slightest change thy looks express;
And feel there's naught to do or dare
My heart would shrink from, thee to bless ;
That offers life a new career,

And raises e'en the slightest things

To be the source of hope or fear,
Whence unimagined pleasure springs !
Sweet darling child, a power is thine,
Which in thy very weakness lies-
A strength we never can divine
Beams ever from these tender eyes.

And with deep rapture we obey
The varied changes of thy will:
We gladly own an infant's sway,
Whose power remains a myst'ry still.

J. A. LANGFord. (Simpkin.)

The Lamp of Life.

"WHAT'S IN A NAME?"

THOUGH Shakespeare asks us, "What's in a name?" (As if cognomens were much the same),

There's really a very great scope in it.
A name ?-why, wasn't there Doctor Dodd,
The servant at once of Mammon and God,
Who found four thousand pounds and odd,
A prison-a cart—and a rope in it?

A name?—if the party had a voice
What mortal would be a Bugg by choice?
As a Hogg, a Grubb, or a Chubb rejoice?
Or any such nauseous blazon?

Not to mention many a vulgar name,
That would make a door-plate blush for shame,
If door-plates were not so brazen !

A name?-it has more than nominal worth,
And belongs to good or bad luck at birth—
As dames of a certain degree know.
In spite of his Page's hat and hose,
His Page's jacket, and buttons in rows,
Bob only sounds like a page in prose
Till turned into Rupertino.

THOMAS HOOD. Miss Kilmansegg.
Poetical Works. (Ward, Lock, and Co.)

THE CHRISTENING.

ARRAYED-a half-angelic sightIn vests of pure baptismal white, The mother to the Font doth bring The little helpless nameless thing, With hushes soft and mild caressing, At once to get-a name and blessing. Close by the Babe the Priest doth stand, The Cleansing Water at his hand, Which must assoil the soul within From every stain of Adam's sin. The Infant eyes the mystic scenes, Nor knows what all this wonder means; And now he smiles, as if to say, "I am a Christian made this day; Now frighted clings to Nurse's hold, Shrinking from the water cold, Whose virtues, rightly understood, Are as Bethesda's waters good.

Strange words-the World, the Flesh, the DevilPoor Babe, what can it know of Evil?

But we must silently adore

Mysterious truths, and not explore.
Enough for him, in after-times,

When he shall read these artless rhymes,
If, looking back upon this day,
With quiet conscience he can say,

GOD of that glorious gift of grace

By which thy people seek thy face, When in thy presence we appear, Vouchsafe us faith to venture near.

Confiding in thy truth alone,
Here, on the steps of Jesus' throne,
We lay the treasure thou hast given,
To be received and rear'd for heaven.

Lent to us for a season, we
Lend him for ever, Lord, to thee;
Assured that, if to thee he live,
We gain in what we seem to give.

Large and abundant blessings shed, Warm as these prayers, upon his head; And on his soul the dews of grace, Fresh as these drops upon his face.

Make him and keep him thine own child, Meek follower of the Undefiled; Possessor here of grace and love,

Inheritor of heaven above.

J. S. B. MONSELL.