Childhood, a selection from the poets, by H.M.R.

Let Venus bless the evening air,
Uprise at morn Prince Lucifer,

But those little tiny stars be mine

That through the softened copse-wood shine,
With beauty crown the pastoral hill,
And glimmer o'er the sylvan rill,
Where stands the peasant's ivied nest,
And the huge mill-wheel is at rest.
From out the honeysuckle's bloom
I peeped into that laughing room,
Then like a hail-drop on the pane,
Pattering, I stilled the din again,

While

startled every

looked eye

up;

And, half-raised to her lip the cup,

The rosy maiden's look met mine!

But I veiled mine eyes with the silken twine
Of the small wild roses, clustering thickly;
Then to her seat returning quickly,
She 'gan to talk with bashful glee
Of fairies 'neath the greenwood tree
Dancing by moonlight, and she blest
Gently our silent land of rest.

The infants playing on the floor

At these wild words their sport gave o'er,
And asked where lived the Cottage-fairy;
The maid replied, "She loves to tarry
Ofttimes beside our very hearth,
And joins in little children's mirth,

When they are gladly innocent;
And sometimes beneath the leafy tent
That murmurs round our cottage-door,
Our overshadowing sycamore,

We see her dancing in a ring,

And hear the blessed creature sing—
A creature full of gentleness,
Rejoicing in our happiness."

Then plucked I a wreath with many a gem
Burning-a flowery diadem;

And through the wicket with a glide
I slipped, and sat me down beside

The youngest of those infants fair,

And wreathed the blossoms round his hair.

"Who placed these flowers on William's head?"

His little wondering sister said:

"A wreath not half so bright and gay

Crowned me upon the morn of May,
Queen of that sunny holiday."
The tiny monarch laughed aloud
With pride among the loving crowd,
And with my shrillest voice I lent
A chorus to their merriment;
Then, with such murmur as a bee
Makes from a flower-cup suddenly
Borne off into the silent sky,

I skimmed away, and with delight
Sailed down the calm stream of the night,

Till gently as a flake of snow,
Once more I dropt on earth below,
And girdled as with a rainbow zone
The cot beloved, I call mine own

-The hushed beehives were still as death,

And the sleeping doves held fast their breath,
Nestling together on the thatch;

With my wing-tip I raised the latch,

And there that lovely lady shone,

In silence sitting all alone,

Beside the cradle of her child!

And ever as she gazed she smiled
On his calm forehead, white as snow:
I rock'd the cradle to and fro,

As on the broom the linnet's nest

Swings to the mild wind from the west;
And oft his little hands and breast
With warm and dewy lips I prest.
"Sweet Fairy!" the glad mother said,
And down she knelt as if she prayed-
While glad was I to hear our name
Bestowed on such a beauteous frame,
And with my wings I hid mine eyes,
Till I saw the weeping kneeler rise
From her prayer, in holy ecstasies!

Blackwood's Magazine.