As they lie before her there,
There babbles from chair to chair
A little sweet face,

That's a gleam in the place,
With its little gold curls of hair.

Then O wonder not that her heart
From all else would rather part

Than those tiny blue shoes

That no little feet use,

And whose sight makes such fond tears start.

TODDLING MAY.

FIVE pearly teeth and two soft blue eyes,
Two sinless eyes of blue,

That are dim or are bright they scarce know why,
That, baby dear, is you.

And parted hair of a pale, pale gold,

That is priceless, every curl,

And a boldness shy, and a fear half bold,

Ay, that's my baby girl.

A small, small frock, as the snowdrop white,

That is worn with a tiny pride,

With a sash of blue, by a little sight

With a baby wonder eyed;

And a pattering pair of restless shoes,

Whose feet have a tiny fall,

That not for the world's coined wealth we'd lose, That, Baby May, we call.

A rocker of dolls with staring eyes
That a thought of sleep disdain,
That with shouts of tiny lullabies
Are by'd and by'd in vain ;

A drawer of carts with baby noise,

With strainings and pursed-up brow,

Whose hopes are cakes and whose dreams are toy
Ay, that's my baby now.

A sinking of heart, a shuddering dread,
Too deep for a word or tear,

Or a joy whose measure may not be said,
As the future is hope or fear;

A sumless venture, whose voyage's fate
We would and yet would not know,
Is she whom we dower with love as great
As is perilled by hearts below.

Oh what as her tiny laugh is dear,

Or our days with gladness girds!
Or what is the sound we love to hear
Like the joy of her baby words!
Oh pleasure our pain and joys our fears
Should be, could the future say,
Away with sorrow, time has no tears
For the eyes of Baby May.

CRADLE SONGS.

I.

LULLABY! O lullaby!

Baby, hush that little cry!

Light is dying,

Bats are flying,

Bees to-day with work have done;
So, till comes the morrow's sun,

Let sleep kiss those bright eyes dry!

Lullaby! O lullaby!

Lullaby! O lullaby!

Hushed are all things far and nigh;

Flowers are closing,

Birds reposing,

All sweet things with life have done;
Sweet, till dawns the morning sun,
Sleep then kiss those blue eyes dry!
Lullaby! O lullaby!

TO A LADY I KNOW, AGED ONE.

O SUNNY curls! O eyes of blue!
The hardest natures known,
Baby, would softly speak to you,
With strangely tender tone;
What marvel, Mary, if from such

Your sweetness love would call?
We love you, baby, O how much!
Most dear of all things small!

Unborn, how, more than all on earth,
Your mother yearn'd to meet

Your dream'd-of face; you, from your birth,

Most sweet of all things sweet!

Even now, for your small hands' first press
Of her full happy breast,

How oft does she God's goodness bless,
And feel her heart too blest!

You came, a wonder to her eyes,

That doated on each grace,

Each charm, that still with new surprise
She show'd us in your face.
Small beauties? ah, to her not small!

How plain to her blest mind!

Though, baby dear, I doubt if all
All that she found could find.

A year
has gone, and, mother, say,
Through all that year's blest round,
In her has one sweet week or day
Not some new beauty found?

What moment has not fancied one,
Since first your eyes she met ?
And, wife, I know you have not done
With finding fresh ones yet.

Nor I; for, baby, some new charm
Each coming hour supplies,

So sweet, we think change can but harm
Your sweetness in our eyes,
Till comes a newer, and we know,
As that fresh charm we see,
In you, sweet Nature wills to show
How fair a babe can be.

Kind God, that gave this precious gift,
More clung-to every day,

To Thee our eyes we trembling lift-
Take not Thy gift away!

Looking on her, we start in dread,

We stay our shuddering breath,
And shrink to feel the terror said
In that one dark word-death.

O tender eyes! O beauty strange!
When childhood shall depart,

O that thou, babe, through every change
May'st keep that infant heart!
O gracious God! O this make sure,
That, of no grace beguiled,

The woman be in soul as pure
As now she is, a child!

THE SEASONS.

A BLUE-EYED child that sits amid the noon, O'erhung with a laburnum's drooping sprays, Singing her little songs, while, softly round,

Along the grass the chequered sunshine plays.

All beauty that is throned in womanhood,

Pacing a summer garden's fountained walks,
That stoops to smooth a glossy spaniel down,
To hide her flushing cheek from one who talks.

A happy mother with her fair-faced girls,

In whose sweet Spring again her youth she sees, With shout, and dance, and laugh, and bound, and song, Stripping an autumn orchard's laden trees.

An aged woman in a wintry room,

Frost on the pane-without, the whirling snow; Reading old letters of her far-off youth,

Of pleasures past, and griefs of long ago.

TO A LOCKET.

O CASKET of dear fancies,
O little case of gold,
What rarest wealth of memorics
Thy tiny round will hold !
With this first curl of baby's
In thy small charge will live
All thoughts that all her little life
To memory can give.

O prize its silken softness!

Within its amber round

What worlds of sweet rememberings

Will still by us be found,
The weak, shrill cry, so blessing
The curtained room of pain,
With every since-felt feeling,
To us 'twill bring again.

"Twill mind us of her lying

In rest, soft-pillowed deep,
While, hands the candle shading,
We stole upon her sleep;