Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between:
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;-
Rock me to sleep, mother,―rock me to sleep!

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,-
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;―
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song:
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;

Rock me to sleep, mother,―rock me to sleep!

IN HEAVEN I'LL ROCK THEE TO SLEEP.

Yes, darling one, I will rock thee to sleep!
Stay not to murmur or sadly to weep;
Smile, though thy pathway is rugged and cold,
Soon shall I greet thee in heaven's sweet fold;
Cease thy repinings, for trouble must come
Where'er on earth thou shalt find thee a home;
Over life's desert the shadows will creep,-
In realms of joy I will rock thee to sleep!

No love like that of thy mother thou'lt find,
No hand to guide thee, no ties that will bind,
No eyes to watch thee, and no heart to love-
As love the angels in mansions above;

Still doth my heart sweetly roam to my child
When tempests come and when life's night is wild,—
Over my darling my fond watch I'll keep,
Till when in heaven I rock thee to sleep.

Soon wilt thou cross the dark river of death,
Ere long thou'lt feel the great reaper's cold breath,
Angels shall bear thee from life's cheerless shore,
To realms where beauty shall fade nevermore;
Sweet songs shall greet thee and bright forms appear,
Nevermore care and grief's shadows thou'lt fear,
But where dwells happiness-lasting and deep-
Gladly, my loved one, I'll rock thee to sleep!

THE MAIDEN'S PRAYER.-N. P. WILLIS.

She rose from her delicious sleep,

And put away her soft brown hair,

And in a tone as low and deep

As love's first whisper, breathed a prayer;
Her snow-white hands together pressed,
Her blue eyes sheltered in the lid,
The folded linen on her breast

Just swelling with the charms it hid.
And from her long and flowing dress
Escaped a bare and snowy foot,
Whose step upon the earth did press

Like a sweet snow-flake soft and mute;
And then from slumber chaste and warm,
Like a young spirit fresh from heaven,
She bowed that young and matchless form;
And humbly prayed to be forgiven.

Oh, God! if souls as pure as these
Need daily mercy from Thy throne-

If she upon her bended knee,

Our holiest and our purest one

She with a face so clear and bright

We deem her some stray child of light;
If she, with these soft eyes and tears,
Day after day in her young years,

Must kneel and pray for grace from Thee,
How hardly if she win not heaven
Will our wild errors be forgiven!

BASCOMB'S BABY.

She brought it over to our house, Mrs. Bascomb did. It was their first-a wee little red-faced, red-headed, pug-nosed, howling infant. It was one of the hottest days in July, but she had it wrapped up in three shawls and a bedquilt, and was in agony every moment for fear it would sneeze.

"Do see his darling, darling little face!" she said to me, as she unwound him about forty times, and looked to see which end his feet were on.

I looked.

I have been the father of eleven just such howling little wopsies, and I didn't see anything remarkable about Bascomb's baby.

"See those eyes--that firmness of mouth, that temper in his look!" she went on.

I saw them.

The little scoundrel began to get red in the face and beat the air, and his mother shouted:

"He's being murdered by a pin!"

She turned him wrong end up, laid him on his face, then on his back, loosened his bands, rubbed the soles of his feet, and the tears stood in her eyes as she solemnly remarked: "I know he won't live-he's too smart!

The child recovered, and as he lay on his back across her knees and surveyed the ceiling, she went on:

"Such a head! Why, every one who sees him says that he is going to be a Lincoln, a Greeley, or a Bismarck; do you notice that high forehead?"

I did.

I thought he was all forehead, as his hair didn't com mence to grow until the back of his neck was reached, but she assured me that I was mistaken.

“Wouldn't I just heft him once?”

I hefted him.

I told her I never saw a child of his weight weigh so much, and she smiled like an angel; she said that she was afraid 【 didn't appreciate children, but now she knew I did.

"Wouldn't I just look at his darling little feet-his little red feet and cunning toes?"

Yes, I would.

She rolled him over on his face and unwound his feet, and triumphantly held them up to my gaze. I contemplated the hundreds of little wrinkles running lengthwise and crosswise, the big toes and the little toes, and I agreed with her that so far as I could judge from the feet and the toes and the wrinkles, a future of unexampled brilliancy lay before that pug-nosed imp.

He began to kick and howl, and she stood him on end, set him up, laid him down and trotted him until she bounced the wind-colic into the middle of September.

"Who did he look like?"

I bent over the scarlet-faced rascal, pushed his nose one side, chucked him under the chin, and didn't answer without due deliberation. I told her that there was a faint resemblance to George Washington around the mouth, but the eyes reminded me of Daniel Webster, while the general features had made me think of the poet Milton ever since she entered the house.

That was just her view exactly, only she hadn't said anything about it before.

Did I think he was too smart to live?"

I felt of his ears, rubbed his head, put my fingers down the back of his neck, and I told her that in my humble opinion he wasn't, though he had had a narrow escape. If his nose had been set a little more to one side, or his ears had appeared in the place of his eyes, Bascomb could have purchased a weed for his hat without delay. No; the child would live; there wasn't the least doubt about it, and any man or woman who said he wouldn't grow up to make the world thunder with his fame would steal the wool off a lost lamb in January.

She felt so happy that she rolled the imp up in his fortynine bandages, shook him to straighten his legs and take the kinks out of his neck, and then carried him home under her arm, while my wife made me go along with an umbrella, for fear the sun would peel his little nose.

THE IVY GREEN.-CHARLES DICKENS.

Oh! a dainty plant is the ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,

In his cell so lone and cold.

The wall must be crumbled, the stones decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim;

And the mouldering dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he;

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge oak tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,

As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old ivy shall never fade
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days
Shall fatten upon the past:

For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the ivy's food at last.

Creeping on where time has been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

LOVE AND AGE.

I played with you 'mid cowslips growing,
When I was six and you were four;

When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,

Were pleasures soon to please no more;

Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather,

With little playmates, to and fro,

We wandered hand in hand together;

But that was sixty years ago.

You grew a lovely, roseate maiden,

And still our early love was strong;