MEASURING THE BABY.

O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave,
But you haven't put one on my papa's grave.

If mamma were here-but she lies by his side,
Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died."

"Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief,
"This young orphaned maid hath full cause for her grief."
Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street,

He lifted the maiden, while in through the gate
The long line repasses, and many an eye

Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh.

"This way, it is here, sir-right under this tree;
They lie close together, with just room for me."

"Halt! Cover with roses each lowly green mound—
A love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground."

"Oh! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can repay
The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day;
But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live,
'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give.

I shall see papa soon, and dear mamma too—

I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true;
And they will both bless you, I know, when I say

How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day-
How you cheered her sad heart, and soothed it to rest,
And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast;
And when the kind angels shall call you to come,

We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home,

Where death never comes, his black banners to wave,
And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave."

MEASURING THE BABY.

WE measured the riotous baby
Against the cottage wall-
A lily grew on the threshold,

And the boy was just as tall;

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A royal tiger-lily,

With spots of purple and gold,
And a heart like a jewelled chalice,
The fragrant dew to hold.

Without, the blue-birds whistled
High up in the old roof-trees,
And to and fro at the window
The red rose rocked her bees;
And the wee pink fists of the baby
Were never a moment still,
Snatching at shine and shadow
That danced on the lattice-sill.

His eyes were wide as blue-bells

His mouth like a flower unblown-
Two little bare feet like funny white mice,
Peeped out from his snowy white gown;
And we thought, with a thrill of rapture,
That yet had a touch of pain,

When June rolls around with her roses,
We'll measure the boy again.

Ah me! in a darkened chamber,

With the sunshine shut away, Through tears that fell like a bitter rain, We measured the boy to-day;

And the little bare feet, that were dimpled And sweet as a budding rose,

Lay side by side together,

In a hush of a long repose!

Up from the dainty pillow,

White as the risen dawn, The fair little face lay smiling,

With the light of heaven thereon; And the dear little hands, like rose leaves Dropped from a rose, lay still,

Never to snatch at the sunshine

That crept to the shrouded sill.

THE ISLE OF LONG AGO.

We measured the sleeping baby
With ribbons white as snow,
For the shining rosewood casket
That waited him below;

And out of the darkened chamber
We went with a childless moan-
To the height of the sinless angels
Our little one had grown.

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THE ISLE OF LONG AGO.

OH, a wonderful stream is the river of Time,
As it runs through the realm of tears,
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme,
And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends with the Ocean of Years.

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,
And the summers, like buds between ;

And the year in the sheaf- -so they come and they go,
On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,
As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical isle up the river of Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing;
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are staying.

And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago,
And we bury our treasures there;

There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow—
There are heaps of dust-but we love them so !—
There are trinkets and tresses of hair;

There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer,

There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings;
There are broken vows and pieces of rings,

And the garments that she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore
By the mirage is lifted in air;

And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar,
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the river is fair.

Oh, remembered for aye, be the blessed Isle,
All the day of our life till night—

When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!

THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR.

IN tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,
And ragged old jacket, perfumed with cigars,
Away from the world and its toils and its cares,
I've a snug little kingdom, up four pairs of stairs.

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,
But the fire there is bright, and the air rather pure;
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day

Is grand, through the chimney-pots over the way.

This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks
With worthless old nicknacks and silly old books,
And foolish old odds, and foolish old ends,

Cheap bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends

Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked),
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed,—

A two-penny treasury, wondrous to see,

What matter? "Tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR.

No better divan need the Sultan require

Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinnet.

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;
By Tiber once twinkled that old brazen lamp;
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn ;
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon!

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Long, long through the hours and the night and the chimes, Here we talk of old books and old friends and old times; And we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie;

This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,
There's one that I love and cherish the best;
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair,
I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair!

"Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair!

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms,
A thrill must have passed through your withering old arms.
I looked and I longed, I wished in despair-

I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair.

It was but a moment she sat in this place;

She'd a scarf on her neck and a smile on her face,

A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,

As she sat there and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair.

And so I have valued my chair ever since,

Like the shrine of a saint or the throne of a prince.
Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet, I declare
The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair.

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,
In the silence of night, I sit here alone—