Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which, though more splendid, may not
please him more;

So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand

Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

BEDTIME

'Tis bedtime; say your hymn, and bid Good-night;

66

God bless Mamma, Papa, and dear ones

all."

Your half-shut eyes beneath your eyelids

fall,

Another minute, you will shut them quite. Yes, I will carry you, put out the light, And tuck you up, although you are so tall!

What will you give me, sleepy one, and call My wages, if I settle you all right?

I laid her golden curls upon my arm,

I drew her little feet within my hand,
Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss,
Her heart next mine beat gently, soft and

warm

She nestled to me, by Love's command, Paid me my precious wages-"Baby's

Kiss."

Francis, Earl of Rosslyn

HER FIRSTBORN

It was her first sweet child, her heart's delight:

And, though we all foresaw his early doom,
We kept the fearful secret out of sight;
We saw the canker, but she kiss'd the bloom.
And yet it might not be: we could not
brook

To vex her happy heart with vague alarms,
To blanch with fear her fond intrepid look,
Or send a thrill through those encircling

arms.

She smil❜d upon him, waking or at rest: She could not dream her little child would

die:

She toss'd him fondly with an upward eye: She seem'd as buoyant as a summer spray, That dances with a blossom on its breast, Nor knows how soon it will be borne away. Charles Tennyson Turner

TO A YOUNG CHILD

As doth his heart who travels far from home
Leap up whenever he by chance doth see
One from his mother-country lately come,
Friend from
my home thus do I welcome

thee.

Thou art so late arrived that I the tale
Of thy high lineage on thy brow can trace,
And almost feel the breath of that soft gale
That wafted thee unto this desert place,
And half can hear those ravishing sounds
that flowed

From out Heaven's gate when it was oped for thee,

That thou awhile mightst leave thy bright abode

Amid these lone and desolate tracks to be A homesick, weary wanderer, and then Return unto thy native land again.

Eliza Scudder

THE VIRGIN

MOTHER! whose virgin bosom was uncrost
With the least shade of thought to sin allied;
Woman! above all women glorified,

Our tainted nature's solitary boast;
Purer than foam on central ocean tost;

Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak

strewn

With fancied roses, than the unblemished

moon

Before her wane begins on heaven's blue coast;

Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween, Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend,

As to a visible Power, in which did blend
All that was mixed and reconciled in Thee
Of mother's love with maiden purity,
Of high with low, celestial with terrene!
William Wordsworth

THANKSGIVING AFTER

CHILDBIRTH

WOMAN! the Power who left his throne on

high,

And deigned to wear the robe of flesh we

wear,

The Power that thro' the straits of Infancy Did pass dependent on maternal care,

His own humanity with Thee will share, Pleased with the thanks that in his People's

eye

Thou offerest up for safe Delivery

From Childbirth's perilous throes. And should the Heir

Of thy fond hopes hereafter walk inclined
To courses fit to make a mother rue

That ever he was born, a glance of mind
Cast upon this observance may renew
A better will; and, in the imagined view
Of thee thus kneeling, safety he may find.
William Wordsworth

MY MOTHER

THERE was a gather'd stillness in the room: Only the breathing of the great sea rose From far off, aiding that profound repose, With regular pulse and pause within the gloom

Of twilight, as if some impending doom Was now approaching;-I sat moveless there, Watching with tears and thoughts that were like prayer,

Till the hour struck, the thread dropp'd from the loom;

And the Bark pass'd in which freed souls are borne.

The dear still'd face lay there; that sound forlorn

Continued; I rose not, but long sat by: And now my heart oft hears that sad seashore, When she is in the far-off land, and I

Wait the dark sail returning yet once more.

William Bell Scott