And then the gentle lullaby

That sooth'd the babe to rest,

As, sinking like a twilight flower,
He nestled on my breast,

Unconscious of the eyes that gaz'd
With fond devotion there,
Unconscious of the broken song,
That form'd itself to prayer.

Nor be thy sacred notes forgot,
Voice of the by-gone days!
The lay of evening penitence,
The morning hymn of praise.

Nor yet th' inspiring, holy swell
Of Sabbath's blessed chime,
Which bore upon its upward wing
The cares of earth and time.

O, truant voice of former song,
Return, return again!

My heart is young, awake once more
Thy glad and solemn strain.

The bright round hills are standing still,
The woodland depths are green,

The orchards glow with autumn fruit,
And streamlets glide between;

The lovely moon still mounts her car,
Flooding the earth and sea, —
Voice of my youth, on that bright ray
Why glid'st thou not to me?

Friendship is true, and love still warm,
And Sabbath hymns are sung,

With passionate appeal I ask,
Why leave thy lyre unstrung?

How silent! but methinks I hear

A whisper from afar,

That tells me we shall meet again

Where new-cloth'd voices are!

And mine, mine own, will sound once more

Amid the eternal choir,

And swell in loftier, sweeter strains,

To some celestial lyre.

TO MY DAUGHTER.

THOU wert my pride in babyhood, a bright and fairy

thing,

With dimpling smiles, and mottled arms, and quick elastic spring;

With teeth that lay like little shells upon a coral bed, And hair as soft as gossamer by summer breezes sped.

Thou wert my pride when thy first word in broken accents woke,

And thought from out its prison-cell in simple phrases

broke;

And when thy tottling velvet feet the spell of weakness

spurned,

And to my arms, with frantic laugh, thy outspread arms were turned !

Thou wert my pride in childhood, when demurely to

thy school,

Thou trod'st thy way industrious, beneath a teacher's

rule;

And when each swift revolving year a learned honor

brought,

In shape of shining premium, by scholar-craft still bought.

Proud was I of thy tuneful art, when thought, matured and free,

Lent to thy voice and words a tone of golden minstrelsy; I've closed my eyes, and dreamed that such would be the seraph strain

That to the spirit-world would call my spirit back again.

Proud was I of thy household step, with all its busy

arts,

Which to the social fire-side life its quietness imparts; I joyed to hear thy broken song, thy light and careless

jest,

Spring forth when aiming thus to make the friends who love thee blest.

But now I have a tenderer pride. Yes, when upon my

frame

With aching head, and throbbing pulse, the fever

tempest came,

And I saw thine eye in sympathy bend o'er my

bed,

restless

And saw thy form go quietly, with gently thoughtful

And felt thy kiss of lovingness fall sweetly on my cheek, And heard thy voice in whisperings thy patient nursing speak

I knew how pain and weariness by love can be beguiled, And turned to Heaven indeed with pride, that thou, thou art my child.