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The tuneful seraph-host that raised their songs around the throne,

Giving to God and to the Lamb the praise that is their own?

Or look'st thou on the Tree of Life, whose foliage yet may heal

The nations, and the earlier curse of Eden's tree

repeal?

Or gazest thou upon that stream, like clearest crystal

bright,

Proceeding from Jehovah's throne, and glorious from His light?

Vain though it seems to ask or think what sights and forms divine

May rise in slumber's tranquil hour on spirits pure as thine,

Not wholly so, if, while he sings, within the minstrel's soul

The influence of such heavenly themes may earthborn cares control.

Sleep, happy dreamer! sleep in peace; and may thy mental powers

By visions such as these be nursed for future waking hours:

That so from death's last dreamless sleep thy spirit may ascend

To know the fulness of all joy, in glory without

end.

LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLESS

EYES.

MRS. HEMANS.

Look on me with thy cloudless eyes,
Truth in their dark transparence lies ;
Their sweetness gives me back the tears,
And the free trust of early years—

My gentle child!

The spirit of my infant prayer

Shines in the depths of quiet there;

And home and love once more are mine,
Found in that dewy calm divine,

My gentle child!

Oh! heaven is with thee in thy dreams,
Its light by day around thee gleams :

Thy smile hath gifts from vernal skies :—
Look on me with thy cloudless eyes,

My gentle child!

TO A CHILD.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek
And curly pate, and merry eye,

And arm and shoulders round and sleek,
And soft and fair, thou urchin sly?

What boots it who with sweet caresses,
First called thee his, or squire or hind?
For thou in every wight that passes
Dost now a friendly playmate find.

Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning,
As fringed eyelids rise and fall,
Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,
'Tis infantine coquetry all!

But far afield thou hast not flown,

With mocks and threats, half-lisped, half

spoken ;

I feel thee pulling at my gown—

Of right good will thy simple token.

R

And thou must laugh and wrestle too,—
A mimic warfare with me waging!
To make, as wily lovers do,

Thy after kindness more engaging :

The wilding-rose-sweet as thyself,-
And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure ;-
I'd gladly part with worldly pelf

To taste again thy youthful pleasure.

But yet, for all thy merry look,

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook, The weary spell, or horn-book thumbing.

Well, let it be! through weal and woe, Thou know'st not now thy future range;

Life is a motley shifting show:

And thou a thing of hope and change.

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