No picture of your form or face,
Your waking or your sleeping,
But that which Love shall daily trace,
And trust to Memory's keeping.

Hereafter, when revolving years

Have made you tall and twenty,

And brought you blended hopes and fears,
And sighs and slaves in plenty,
May those who watch our little saint
Among her tasks and duties,

Feel all her virtues hard to paint,

As now we deem her beauties.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED,

BABY'S SKIES.

WOULD You

know the

baby's skies?
Baby's skies are mother's eyes.
Mother's eyes and smile together
Make the baby's pleasant weather.

Mother, keep your eyes from tears,
Keep your heart from foolish fears,
Keep your lips from dull complaining,
Lest the baby think 't is raining.

MARY C. BARTLETT.

IN AN UNKNOWN TONGUE. 133

MOTHER.

UPON her snowy couch she drooping lies,

A languor on her limbs that seems a grace,

A sacred pallor on her lily face,

A blessed light reflected in her eyes,

She knows who drew her strength, and would not rise;
Forgetting, she rests a little space,

Sees her warm life-blood mantle in his face,
And strains her ear to catch his waiting cries.
O wondrous mother-love! how strange and deep,
With what vibrating thrill of tenderness;

To give the glow, and lie a pallid flower,
To give the light, and smile, and wait to weep!
Sweet is thine infant's warm unconsciousness,
But sweeter thy mysterious, sacred power!

ELAINE GOODALE.

I

IN AN UNKNOWN TONGUE.

KNOW full well what saith Saint Paul, –

For unknown tongues he did not care;

It was as much as he could do

To speak them good and fair.

Give him the known and understood;
Five words of this he counted more

Than thousands ten of all the rest

That men could babble o'er.

But then he did n't, as he might,

Like Peter, take a wife about,
To tend his thorn, and soothe his heart,
With combat wearied out.

And so he had no tiny Paul,

No nonsense-prating, wee Pauline, To make him half forget the strife His Jew and Greek between.

I cannot glory, as could he,

In perils both by sea and land; Of visions I have had a few, — Some hard to understand.

But I can glory in a Boy,

As dear as ever poet sung;

And all his speech, from morn till eve,
Is in an unknown tongue.

Strange, bubbling, rippling, gurgling sounds

His pouting lips still overflow; But what the meaning of them is, The wisest do not know.

Friends have I, learned in the Greek,
In Latin, Hebrew, Spanish, Dutch,
In French and German; and a few
Of Sanscrit know - not much.

A RHYME OF ONE.

They come and hear the baby's speech,
As blithe as any song of bird;
They wonder much, but go away,
Nor understand a word.

It minds me now of mountain rills,
And now of zigzag droning bees,
And now of sounds the summer makes
Among the leafy trees.

And yet, if I should say the truth,
Five words of his to me are more

Than of the words I understand
Five hundred times a score.

For whatsoever they may mean
To him or to my learned friends,
One meaning, of all meanings best,
He still to me commends,

That life is sweet for him and me,

Though half its meaning be not guessed;

That God is good, and I a child

Upon his loving breast.

135

JOHN W. CHADWICK.

A RHYME OF ONE.

You sleep upon your mother's breast,

Your race begun,

A welcome, long a wish'd-for Guest,

Whose age is One.

A Baby-Boy, you wonder why
You cannot run;

You try to talk how hard you try!
You 're only One.

Ere long you won't be such a dunce;
You'll eat your bun,

And fly your kite, like folk who once
Were only One.

You'll rhyme and woo, and fight and joke,
Perhaps you'll pun!

Such feats are never done by folk
Before they're One.

Some day, too, you may have your joy,
And envy none;

Yes, you yourself may own a Boy
Who is n't One.

He'll dance and laugh and crow; he 'll do As you have done

(You crown a happy home, though you Are only One).

But when he's grown shall you be here
To share his fun,

And talk of times when he (the Dear!)
Was hardly One?