ON A SLEEPING BOY.

SIR T. E. CROFT.

SLEEP! and while slumber weighs thine eyelids down,

May no dread phantom o'er thy pillow frown,
But brightest visions deck thy tranquil bed,
And angels' wing o'ercanopy thy head.
Sleep on, sweet boy, may no dark dream arise,
To mar thy rosy rest, thou babe of Paradise!

See where the glowing hands are closely prest,
As when from prayer he softly sank to rest;
Mark, how with half-closed lips and cherub smile,
He looks as still he prayed and slept the while;
Yet, yet they seem as if they whispered praise,
For all the blessings of his halcyon days.

Bid, O Almighty Father, God, and friend,
Religion's glories on his steps attend,
To shine through all the gloomy storms of life,
A splendid beacon o'er this world of strife,
And when to thee recalled he sinks in death,
May prayer and praise still bless his parting breath!

THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP.

SUGGESTED BY A MONUMENT OF CHANTREY'S.

MRS. HEMANS.

THOU sleepest, but when wilt thou wake, fair child?

When the fawn awakes in the forest wild?

When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of morn?

When the first rich breath of the rose is born?

Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies

Too deep and still on thy soft-sealed eyes :
Mournful though sweet is thy rest to see;
When will the hour of thy rising be?

Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark
Or the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark:
Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet
The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet;
Love with sad kisses, unfelt, hath press'd
Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast;
And the glad spring, calling out bird and bee,
Shall colour all blossoms, fair child! but thee.

Thou'rt gone from us, bright one!—that thou shouldst

die

And life be left to the butterfly!*

Thou 'rt gone, as a dewdrop is swept from the bough;
Oh! for the world where thy home is now!
How may we love but in doubt and fear,
How may we anchor our fond hearts here,
How should e'en joy but a trembler be,
Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?

* A butterfly, as if resting on a flower, is sculptured on the

monument.

EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL.

MRS. HEMANS.

HUSH! 't is a holy hour-the quiet room
Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds
A faint and starry radiance through the gloom,
And the sweet stillness, down on bright young
heads,

With all their clust'ring locks, untouched by care,
And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in

prayer.

Gaze on 't is lovely-childhood's lip and cheek

Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought: Gaze, yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,

And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity.

Oh! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,
As birds with slumber's honeydew oppressed,
'Midst the dim-folded leaves, at set of sun,

Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs

Of hope make melody where'er ye tread; And o'er your sleep bright shadows from the wings

Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman's tenderness, how soon her woe!

Her lot is on you, silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,

And sunless riches from affection's deep,

Το pour on broken weeds, a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship-therefore pray.

Her lot is on you, to be found untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope though hope be vain.
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And, oh! to love through all things-therefore
pray.