THE DREAMING CHILD.

Alas! what kind of grief should thy years know?

Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be

When no breath troubles them.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

AND is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy?

What should the cloud be made of?-blessed child! Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy,

All day hath ranged through sunshine, clear, yet

mild:

And now thou tremblest !—wherefore ?—in thy soul
There lies no past, no future.-Thou hast heard
No sound of presage from the distance roll,
Thy heart bears traces of no arrowy word.

From thee no love hath gone; thy mind's young eye Hath look'd not into Death's, and thence become

A questioner of mute Eternity,

A weary

searcher for a viewless home:

Nor hath thy sense been quicken'd unto pain,
By feverish watching for some step beloved;
Free are thy thoughts, an ever-changeful train,
Glancing like dewdrops, and as lightly moved.

Yet now, on billows of strange passion toss'd,
How art thou wilder'd in the cave of sleep!
My gentle child! 'midst what dim phantoms lost,
Thus in mysterious anguish dost thou weep?

Awake! they sadden me-those early tears,
First gushings of the strong dark river's flow,
That must o'ersweep thy soul with coming years
Th' unfathomable flood of human woe!

E

Awful to watch, ev'n rolling through a dream, Forcing wild spray-drops but from childhood's eyes! Wake, wake! as yet thy life's transparent stream Should wear the tinge of none but summer skies.

Come from the shadow of those realms unknown, Where now thy thoughts dismay'd and darkling

rove;

Come to the kindly region all thine own,

The home, still bright for thee with guardian love.

Happy, fair child! that yet a mother's voice
Can win thee back from visionary strife !—
Oh! shall my soul, thus waken'd to rejoice,
Start from the dreamlike wilderness of life?

THE CHARMED PICTURE.

Oh! that those lips had language!-Life hath pass'd

With me but roughly since I saw thee last.

COWPER.

THINE eyes are charm'd-thine earnest eyes

Thou image of the dead!

A spell within their sweetness lies,

A virtue thence is shed.

Oft in their meek blue light enshrined,

A blessing seems to be,

And sometimes there my wayward mind

A still reproach can see:

And sometimes Pity-soft and deep,

And quivering through a tear;

Even as if Love in Heaven could weep,

For Grief left drooping here.

And oh my spirit needs that balm,

Needs it 'midst fitful mirth;

And in the night-hour's haunted calm,

And by the lonely hearth.

Look on me thus, when hollow praise
Hath made the weary pine

For one true tone of other days,
One glance of love like thine!

Look on me thus, when sudden glee
Bears my quick heart along,

On wings that struggle to be free,

As bursts of skylark song.