THE MAYING.

FAIR May unveils her ruddy cheek,
And decks her brow with daisies,
And scatters blossoms as she goes
Through fields and forest mazes.

The fragrant hawthorn, white with bloom,
Fills all the uplands airy:

The grass is dry, the sky is clear

Let's go a-Maying, Mary!

I dearly love, in days like this,

When birds make music o'er us,

To roam with thee through wildwood paths,

And listen to the chorus;

To help thee over crags and stiles,

And take thy hand in leaping,

And out and in to see thy face

Through leaves and branches peeping.

Ten years have pass'd since first I saw

Thy fresh and budding beauty;
And love has ripen'd with the years,
And link'd itself with duty.

In life's young Spring I swore to thee

A truth that should not vary;

And now, in Summer of my days,

I love thee better, Mary!

Time lays his finger light on thee;

Thy cheeks are red as peaches;

Thine eyes are bright as first they glow'd To hear my youthful speeches.

THE MAYING.

Bring all the four into the woods-
We'll set them gathering posies
Of harebells blue and pimpernels,
Instead of garden roses.

Beneath the trees we'll have one day

Of frolicsome employment;

And birds shall sing and winds shall blow,

To help us to enjoyment.

Leave house affairs to shift awhile

Leave work, and care, and sorrow;
We'll be the merrier to-day,
And happier to-morrow.

I would not greatly care for life,

If Fate and Toil contrary,

Could not afford me now and then

A holiday with Mary.

And Fate is kind to those who strive

To make existence pleasant,

With harmless joys and simple tastes,

And kindness ever present.

We'll not complain; so come away,
And when we want a treasure,
We'll use these May-day memories

To buy forgotten pleasure.

Charles Mackay.

I SADDEN when thou smilest to my smile, Child of my love! I tremble to believe That o'er the mirror of that eye of blue, The shadow of my heart will always pass;

A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE.

A heart that, from its struggle with the world,
Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home,
And, careless of the staining dust it brings,
Asks for its idol! Strange, that flowers of earth
Are visited by every air that stirs,

And drink in sweetness only, while the child
That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven,
May take a blemish from the breath of love,
And bear the blight for ever.

I have wept

With gladness at the gift of this fair child!
My life is bound up in her. But, O God!
Thou know'st how heavily my heart at times
Bears its sweet burthen; and if Thou hast given
To nurture such as mine this spotless flower,
To bring it unpolluted unto Thee,

Take thou its love, I pray Thee! Give it light-
Though, following the sun, it turns from me!—
But, by the chord thus wrung, and by the light
Shining about her, draw me to my child!
And link us close, O God, when near to heaven!

N. P. Willis.

THE LOST LITTLE ONE.

WE miss her footfall on the floor,
Amidst the nursery din,

Her tip-tap at our bedroom door,
Her bright face peeping in.

And when to Heaven's high court above
Ascends our social prayer,

Though there are voices that we love,

One sweet voice is not there.