Mother-Song.

Is hers forever, that one little praise,

One little happy voice, is all her own.

105

Ah, saints in Heaven may pray with earnest will And pity for their weak and erring brothers; Yet there is prayer in Heaven more tender still,— The little Children pleading for their Mothers.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

THE NEW-COMERS.

WHAT spirit is this that cometh from afar,
Making the household tender with a cry
That blends the mystery of earth and sky-
The blind, mute motions of a new-lit star,
The unlanguaged visions of a folded rose?
A marvel is the rose from bud to bloom,
The star a wonder and a splendour grows;
But this sweet babe that neither sees or knows,
Hath wrapt in it a genius and a doom

More visionful of beauty than all flowers,
More glowing wondrous than all singing spheres,
And though oft baffled by repelling powers,
Growing and towering through the stormy hours,
To perfect glory in God's year of years.

WILLIAM FReeland.

THE LAW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR, LENOX

TILDEN FOUNDATIONS

TUCKING THE BABY IN.

THE dark-fringed eyelids slowly close
On eyes serene and deep;

Upon my breast my own sweet child
Has gently dropped to sleep.

I kiss his soft and dimpled cheek,

I kiss his rounded chin,

Then lay him on his little bed,

And tuck my baby in.

How fair and innocent he lies!

Like some small angel strayed.

His face still warmed by God's own smile,

That slumbers unafraid;

Or like some new-embodied soul,

Still

pure from taint of sin,

My thoughts are reverent as I stoop
To tuck my baby in.

What toil must stain these tiny hands,

That now lie still and white?

What shadows creep across the face

That shines with morning light?