Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping!

This silence too the while, Its very hush and creeping Seem whispering us a smile; Something divine and dim Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of cherubim, Who say, "We've finished here." LEIGH HUNT.

BABY'S SHOES.

O, THOSE little, those little blue shoes!
Those shoes that no little feet use.

O the price were high

That those shoes would buy,
Those little blue unused shoes !

For they hold the small shape of feet
That no more their mother's eyes meet,
That, by God's good will,
Years since, grew still,

And ceased from their totter so sweet.

And O, since that baby slept,
So hushed, how the mother has kept,
With a tearful pleasure,

That little dear treasure,
And o'er them thought and wept !

For they mind her forevermore
Of a patter along the floor;
And blue eyes she sees

Look up from her knees

With the look that in life they wore.

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!

WILLIAM C. BENNETT.

Not for the milk-white lilies

That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,

And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland,

Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother,

With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that old dim forest He lieth in peace asleep : Light as the down of the thistle,

Free as the winds that blow,

We roved there the beautiful summers, The summers of long ago;

But his feet on the hills grew weary, And, one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother

A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

ALICE CARY.

THE PET NAME.

"The name

Which from THEIR lips seemed a caress."
MISS MITFORD'S Dramatic Scenes.

I HAVE a name, a little name,
Uncadenced for the ear,
Unhonored by ancestral claim,
Unsanctified by prayer and psalm
The solemn font anear.

It never did, to pages wove For gay romance, belong. It never dedicate did move As "Sacharissa," unto love, "Orinda," unto song.

Though I write books, it will be read
Upon the leaves of none,
And afterward, when I am dead,
Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread,
Across my funeral-stone.

This name, whoever chance to call

Perhaps your smile may win. Nay, do not smile! mine eyelids fall Over mine eyes, and feel withal The sudden tears within.

Is there a leaf that greenly grows

Where summer meadows bloom, But gathereth the winter snows, And changeth to the hue of those, If lasting till they come?

Is there a word, or jest, or game,
But time encrusteth round
With sad associate thoughts the same?
And so to me my very name

Assumes a mournful sound.

My brother gave that name to me
When we were children twain,
When names acquired baptismally
Were hard to utter, as to see
That life had any pain.

No shade was on us then, save one
Of chestnuts from the hill,
And through the word our laugh did run
As part thereof. The mirth being done,
He calls me by it still.

Nay, do not smile! I hear in it
What none of you can hear, -
The talk upon the willow seat,
The bird and wind that did repeat
Around, our human cheer.

I hear the birthday's noisy bliss,
My sisters' woodland glee,
My father's praise I did not miss,
When, stooping down, he cared to kiss
The poet at his knee, -

Earth saddens, never shall remove,
Affections purely given;

And e'en that mortal grief shall prove
The immortality of love,

And heighten it with Heaven.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM.

O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine, thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears
away!"

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize, —
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it!) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear!

Yes.

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, · Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss Ah, that maternal smile! it answersI heard the bell tolled on thy burial day; I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? It was. - Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown; May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more. Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return; What ardently I wished I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived, By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learned at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

All this, and, more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks
That humor interposed too often makes;
All this, still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honors to thee as my numbers may,
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could time, his flight reversed, restore the
hours

When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow

ers,

The violet, the pink, the jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while. Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,)

Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart, the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
But no,
what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast,
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile;
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay,
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the
shore

-

"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar :