My mother taught me underneath a tree;
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap, and kissed me,

And, pointing to the east, began to say:

"Look on the rising sun; there God does live,

And gives his light, and gives his heat away; And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

"And we are put on earth a little space,

That we may learn to bear the beams of love, And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

"For when our souls have learned the heat to bear, The clouds will vanish; we shall hear his voice, Saying: 'Come from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'”

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me,

And thus I say to little English boy: When I from black, and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me. WILLIAM BLAKE.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend:

Nor shall she fail to see,
Even in the motions of the storm,

Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
By silent sympathy.

"The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.

"And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swel;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."

Thus Nature spake.— The work was done —

How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

On the Death of an Infant.

A HOST of angels flying,
Through cloudless skies impelled,
Upon the earth beheld
A pearl of beauty lying,

Worthy to glitter bright
In heaven's vast hall of light.
They saw, with glances tender,
An infant newly born,

O'er whom life's earliest morn
Just cast its opening splendor;

Virtue it could not know,
Nor vice, nor joy, nor woe.

The blest angelic legion,
Greeted its birth above,

And came, with looks of love,
From heaven's enchanting region;
Bending their winged way
To where the infant lay.

They spread their pinions o'er it,—
That little pearl which shone
With lustre all its own,-
And then on high they bore it,
Where glory has its birth;-
But left the shell on earth.

Translation of H. S. VAN DYK.

149

DIRK SMITS. (Dutch.)

The Open Window.

THE old house by the lindens
Stood silent in the shade,
And on the gravelled pathway
The light and shadow played.

I saw the nursery windows
Wide open to the air,
But the faces of the children,
They were no longer there.

The large Newfoundland house-dog
Was standing by the door;
He looked for his little playmates,
Who would return no more.

They walked not under the lindens,
They played not in the hall;
But shadow, and silence, and sadness
Were hanging over all.

The birds sang in the branches,
With sweet familiar tone;
But the voices of the children

Will be heard in dreams alone!

And the boy that walked beside me,
He could not understand

Why closer in mine, ah! closer,
I pressed his warm, soft hand!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Baby's Shoes.

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

Oh 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 oh, 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 for evermore
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 oh, 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 COX BENNETT.

As, at one bound, our swift Spring heaps
The orchards full of bloom and scent,
So clove her May my wintry sleeps;·
I only know she came and went.

An angel stood and met my gaze,

Through the low doorway of my tent; The tent is struck, the vision stays; I only know she came and went. Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, And when the oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim, Only to think she came and went.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

The Morning-Glory.

WE wreathed about our darling's head
The morning-glory bright;

Her little face looked out beneath,
So full of life and light,
So lit as with a sunrise,

That we could only say,
"She is the morning-glory true,
And her poor types are they."

So always from that happy time
We called her by their name,
And very fitting did it seem-
For, sure as morning came,
Behind her cradle bars she smiled
To catch the first faint ray,
As from the trellis smiles the flower
And opens to the day.

But not so beautiful they rear

Their airy cups of blue,

As turned her sweet eyes to the light,

Brimmed with sleep's tender dew: And not so close their tendrils fine

Round their supports are thrown,

As those dear arms whose outstretched plea Clasped all hearts to her own.

We used to think how she had come,

Even as comes the flower,

The last and perfect added gift

To crown Love's morning hour;