We measured the sleeping baby
With ribbons white as snow,
For the shining rosewood casket
That waited him below;
And out of the darkened chamber
We went with a childless moan:
To the height of the sinless angels
Our little one had grown.

EMMA ALICE BROWNE.

A much more cheerful picture of babyhood may be found in Holland's "Cradle Song," the choicest fragment of his once very popular poem of "Bittersweet." This work, as a rule, cannot be ranked above a somewhat low level of poetic merit, but its shortcomings are in a measure redeemed by the beauty of this choice tribute to the kingdom of babyhood.

CRADLE SONG.

What is the little one thinking about?
Very wonderful things, no doubt!

Unwritten history!

Unfathomed mystery!

Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks,
And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks,
As if his head were as full of kinks
And curious riddles as any sphinx!
Warped by colic, and wet by tears,
Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears,
Our little nephew will lose two years;
And he'll never know

Where the summers go:

He need not laugh, for he'll find it so!

Who can tell what a baby thinks?
Who can follow the gossamer links

By which the manikin feels his way

Out from the shore of the great unknown, Blind, and wailing, and alone,

Into the light of day?—

Out from the shore of the unknown sea,

Tossing in pitiful agony,

Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,
Specked with the barks of little souls,—
Barks that were launched on the other side,
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide!
What does he think of his mother's eyes?
What does he think of his mother's hair?
What of the cradle roof that flies
Forward and backward through the air?

What does he think of his mother's breast,
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,
Seeking it ever with fresh delight,-
Cup of his life, and couch of his rest?

What does he think when her quick embrace
Presses his hand and buries his face

Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell With a tenderness she can never tell,

Though she murmur the words

Of all the birds,

Words she has learned to murmur well?

Now he thinks he'll go to sleep!

I can see the shadow creep
Over his eyes, in soft eclipse,
Over his brow, and over his lips,
Out to his little finger-tips!
Softly sinking, down he goes!
Down he goes! Down he goes!
See! he is hushed in sweet repose!

In a more sombre key is the following highly pathetic poem, the most popular production of a recent poetess of New England.

HANNAH BINDING SHOES.

Poor lone Hannah,

Sitting at the window, binding shoes:
Faded, wrinkled,

Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse.
Bright-eyed beauty once was she,
When the bloom was on the tree:
Spring and winter,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Not a neighbor,

Passing, nod or answer will refuse
To her whisper,

"Is there from the fishers any news?"
Oh, her heart's adrift, with one
On an endless voyage gone!

Night and morning,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Fair young Hannah,

Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly wooes;
Hale and clever,

For a willing heart and hand he sues.
May-day skies are all aglow,

And the waves are laughing so!

For her wedding

Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.

May is passing;

'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon cooes;
Hannah shudders,

For the mild southwester mischief brews.

Round the rocks of Marblehead,

Outward bound, a schooner sped:
Silent, lonesome,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

'Tis November:

Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews;
From Newfoundland

Not a sail returning will she lose,
Whispering hoarsely, "Fishermen,
Have you, have you heard of Ben ?"
Old with watching,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Twenty winters

Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views,
Twenty seasons!

Never one has brought her any news.

Still her dim eyes silently

Chase the white sails o'er the sea:

Hopeless, faithful,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

LUCY LARCOM.

Frances Sargent Osgood's familiar poem of "Labor is Worship" will serve to close this series of poetical selections.

Pause not to dream of the future before us;

Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us;
Hark, how Creation's deep, musical chorus,

Unintermitting, goes up into heaven!

Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing;
Never the little seed stops in its growing;

More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

"Labor is worship!" the robin is singing;
"Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ringing:
Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspringing,

Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower; From the small insect, the rich coral bower;

Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part.

Labor is life!-'Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth!
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labor is glory!-the flying cloud lightens;
Only the waving wing changes and brightens;
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens :

Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune.

Labor is rest, from the sorrows that greet us;
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us;
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us;
Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill.
Work, and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work, thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping-willow!
Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Labor is health! Lo! the husbandman reaping,
How through his veins goes the life-current leaping!
How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping,
True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides !
Labor is wealth,-in the sea the pearl groweth ;
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth;
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth;
Temple and statue the marble block hides.