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Over his eyes in soft eclipse,
Over his brow and over his lips,
Out to his little finger-tips !
Softly sinking, down he goes !
Down he goes ! down he goes !
See ! he's hushed in sweet repose.

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.

CHOOSING A NAME.

I HAVE got a new-born sister ;
I was nigh the first that kissed her.
When the nursing-woman brought her
To papa, his infant daughter,
How papa's dear eyes did glisten !-
She will shortly be to christen;
And papa has made the offer,
I shall have the naming of her.
Now I wonder what would please her, —
Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa ?
Ann and Mary, they 're too common ;
Joan 's too fornial for a woman ;
Jane's a prettier name beside ;
But we had a Jane that died.
They would say, if 't was Rebecca,
That she was a little Quaker.
Edith 's pretty, but that looks
Better in old English books;
Ellen 's left off long ago;
Blanche is out of fashion now.
None that I have named as yet
Are so good as Margaret.
Emily is neat and fine;
What do you think of Caroline ?
How I'm puzzled and perplexed
What to choose or think of next !
I am in a little fever
Lest the name that I should give her
Should disgrace her or defame her ;-
I will leave papa to name her.

MARY LAMB.

Making every limb all motion ;
Catchings up of legs and arms;
Throwings back and small alarms;
Clutching fingers ; straightening jerks ;
Twining feet whose each toe works;
Kickings up and straining risings;
Mother's ever new surprisings;
Hands all wants and looks all wonder
At all things the heavens under;
Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings
That have more of love than lovings;
Mischiefs done with such a winning
Archness that we prize such sinning;
Breakings dire of plates and glasses ;
Graspings small at all that passes ;
Pullings off of all that's able
To be caught from tray or table ;
Silences, — small meditations
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations ;
Breaking into wisest speeches
In a tongue that nothing teaches;
All the thoughts of whose possessing
Must be wooed to light by guessing ;
Slumbers, — such sweet angel-seemings
That we'd ever have such dreamings ;
Till from sleep we see thee breaking,
And we d always have thee waking ;
Wealth for which we know no measure;
Pleasure high above all pleasure ;
Gladness brimming over gladness ;
Joy in care ; delight in sadness ;
Loveliness beyond completeness ;
Sweetness distancing all sweetness ;
Beauty all that beauty may be ;-
That's May Bennett; that's my baby.

WILLIAM C. BENNETT.

. BABY BYE.
BABY Bye,
Here's a fly;
Let us watch him, you and I.

How he crawls
Up the walls,

Yet he never falls !
I believe with six such legs
You and I could walk on eggs.

There he goes
On his toes,
Tickling Baby's nose.

BABY MAY.

CHEEKS as soft as July peaches ;
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches
Poppies paleness ; round large eyes
Ever great with new surprise ;
Minutes filled with shadeless gladness;
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness;
Happy smiles and wailing cries ;
Crows, and laughs, and tearful eyes ;
Lights and shailows, swifter born
Than on wind-swept autumn corn ;
Ever some new tiny notion,

Spots of red
Dot his head ;
Rainbows on his back are spread ;

That small speck
Is his neck ;
See him nod and beck.

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In the sun
Webs are spun ;
What if he gets into one ?

When it rains
He complains

On the window-panes.
Tongue to talk have you and I;
God has given the little fly

No such things,
So he sings

With his buzzing wings.
He can eat
Bread and meat ;
There's his mouth between his feet.

On his back
Is a pack

Like a pedler's sack.
Does the baby understand ?
Then the fly shall kiss her hand;

Put a crumb
On her thumb,

Maybe he will come.
Catch him? No,
Let him go,
Never hurt an insect so ;

But no doubt
He flies out

Just to gad about.
Now you see his wings of silk
Drabbled in the baby's milk ;

Fie, O fie,
Foolish fly!

How will he get dry?
All wet flies
Twist their thighs ;
Thus they wipe their heads and eyes ;

Cats, you know,
Wash just so,
Then their whiskers grow.

Flies have hairs too short to comb,
So they fly bareheaded home;

But the gnat
Wears a hat.
Do you believe that ?

Flies can see
More than we,
So how bright their eyes must be !

Little fly,
Ope your eye;

Spiders are near by.
For a secret I can tell, -
Spiders never use flies well.

Then away
Do not stay.
Little fly, good day.

THEODORE TILTON.

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

o'clock."

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 gie

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 !

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 !

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean,
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his

lane, That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he'll close

an ee; But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength

anew to me.

WILLIAM MILLER.

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I'm in love with you, Baby Louise !

0, pray to them softly, my baby, with me ! Why ! you never raise your beautiful head !

And say thou wouldst rather Some day, little one, your cheek will grow red They'd watch o'er thy father ! With a flush of delight, to hear the words said, For I know that the angels are whispering to “I love you,” Baby Louise.

thee." Do you hear me, Baby Louise ?

T'he dawn of the morning I have sung your praises for nearly an hour,

Saw Dermot returning, And your lashes keep drooping lower and lower, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ; And - you've gone to sleep, like a weary flower,

And closely caressing
Ungrateful Baby Louise !

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

with thee."

M. E.

SAMUEL LOVER.

LULLABY.

FROM "THE PRINCESS."

TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY.

SWEET and low, sweet and low,

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

Wind of the western sea !
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me ;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon ;
Rest, rest, on ther's breast,

Father will come to thee soon ;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon :
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

TIMELY blossom, Infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn and every night
Their solicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please ;
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tattling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue ;
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandoned 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.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.

In Ireland they have a pretty fancy, that, when a chid smlles in its sleep, it is "talking with angels."

A BABY was sleeping;

Its mother was weeping;
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ;

And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman's dwelling ;
And she cried, “Dermot, darling, 0 come back

to me!"

AMBROSE PHILIPS.

TO MY INFANT SON.

Her beads while she numbered,

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

“0, blest be that warning,

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

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

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,

rope !)

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin ;

THE LOST HEIR. (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin !)

“O where, and O where

Is my bonnie laddie gone?"-OLD SONG. Thou little tricksy Puck !

One day, as I was going by With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

That part of Holborn christened High, Light as the singing bird that rings the air, —

I heard a loud and sudden cry (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the

That chilled my very blood; stair !)

And lo! from out a dirty alley, Thou darling of thy sire!

Where pigs and Irish wont to rally, (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !)

I saw a crazy woman sally, Thou imp of mirth and joy!

Bedaubed with grease and mud. In love's dear chain so bright a link,

She turned her East, she turned her West, Thou idol of thy parents ; – (Drat the boy !

Staring like Pythoness possest, There goes my ink.)

With streaming hair and leaving breast,

As one stark mad with grief. Thou cherub, but of earth; Fit playfellow for fairies, by moonlight pale, O Lord ! O dear, my heart will break, I shall In harmless sport and mirth,

go stick stark staring'wild ! (That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail !) Has ever a one seen anything about the streets

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey like a crying lost-looking child ? From every blossom in the world that blows, Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,

run, if I only knew which way(Another tumble ! That's his precious nose !)

A Child as is lost about London streets, and esThy father's pride and hope !

pecially Seven Dials, is a needle in a (He 'll break that mirror with that skipping

bottle of hay.

I am all in a quiver - get out of my sight, do, With pure heart newly stamped from nature's you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab! mint,

You promised to have half an eye to him, you (Where did he learn that squint?)

know you did, you dirty deceitful young

drab. Thou domestic dove !

The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was young (He'll have that ring off with another shove,)

with my own blessed Motherly eyes, Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest !

Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing (Are these torn clothes his best ?)

at making little dirt-pies. Little epitome of man !

I wonder he left the court, where he was better

off than all the other young boys, (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan,) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells,

and a dead kitten by way of toys. life, (He's got a knife !)

When his Father comes home, and he always Thou enviable being !

comes home as sure as ever the clock No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, He'll be rampant

, he will, at his child being Play on, play on, My elfin John !

lost ; and the beef and the inguns not

done! Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick !) La bless you, good folks, mind your own conWith fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,

carns, and don't be making a mob in the

street; Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk !

O Sergeant M'Farlane ! you have not come across (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown !)

my poor little boy, have you, in your

beat? Thou pretty opening rose ! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your Do, good people, move on ! don't stand staring nose !)

at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs ; Balmy and breathing music like the south,

Saints forbid ! but he's p'r’aps been inviggled (He really brings my heart into my mouth!)

away up a court for the sake of his clothes Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove;

by the priggs ; (I'll tell you what, my love,

He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought I cannot write unless he's sent above.)

it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair ;

strikes one,

THOMAS HOOD.

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