And in the children's rooms aloft
What blossom shapes do gayly slip
Their dainty sheaths, and rosy run
From clasping hand and kissing lip.
A naked sweetness to the eye –
Blossom and babe and butterfly
In witching one so dear a sight!
An ecstasy of life and light.

And, ah, what lovely witcheries

Bestrew the floor,- an empty sock, By vanished dance and song left loose As dead bird's throat; a tiny smock That, sure, upon some meadow grew, And drank the heaven-sweet rains; a shoe Scarce bigger than an acorn-cup; Frocks that seem flowery meads cut up.

Then lily-drest in angel-white

To mother's knee they trooping come; The soft palms fold like kissing shells, And they and we go shining home, Their bright heads bowed and worshipping As though some glory of the spring, Some daffodil that mocks the day, Should fold his golden palms and pray.

And gates of Paradise swing wide
A moment's space in soft accord,
And those dread angels, Life and Death,
A moment veil the flaming sword,

As o'er the weary world forlorn
From Eden's secret heart is borne
That breath of Paradise most fair,

Which mothers call the "children's prayer."

Ah, deep, pathetic mystery!

The world's great woe unconscious hung, A rain-drop on a blossom's lip,

White innocence that woos our wrong,
And love divine that looks again,
Unconscious of the cross and pain,
From sweet child-eyes, and in that child
Sad earth and heaven reconciled.

Then, kissed, on beds we lay them down,
As fragrant-white as clover's sod;
And all the upper floors grow hushed

With children's sleep, and dews of God.
And as our stars their beams do hide,
The stars of twilight, opening wide,
Take up the heavenly tale at even,
And light us on to God and heaven.

THE CHILDREN'S MUSIC.

WE asked where the magic came from
That made her so wondrous fair,
As she stood with the sunlight touching
Her gloss of golden hair.

And her blue eyes looked toward heaven
As though they could see God there.
"Hush!" said the child, "can't you hear it,
The music that's everywhere?"

God help us! we could not hear it,
Our hearts were heavy with pain;
We heard men toiling and wrangling,
We heard the whole world complain;
And the sound of a mocking laughter
We heard again and again,

But we lost all faith in the music,

We had listened so long in vain.

"Can't you hear it?" the young child whispered, And sadly we answered, "No.

We might have fancied we heard it

In the days of long ago;

But the music is all a delusion,
Our reason has told us so,

And you will forget that you heard it,
When you know the sound of woe.'

Then one spoke out from among us
Who had nothing left to fear;
Who had given his life for others,
And been repaid with a sneer.
And his face was lit with a glory,

And his voice was calm and clear;
And he said, "I can hear the music
Which the little children hear."

39

F. M. OWEN.

CREEPING UP THE STAIRS.

In the soft falling twilight
Of a weary, weary day,

With a quiet step I entered

Where the children were at play;
I was brooding o'er some trouble
Which had met me unawares,
When a little voice came ringing:
"Me is creeping up the stairs."

Ah, it touched the tenderest heart-strings
With a breath and force divine,
And such melodies awakened,

GOLDENHAIR climbed upon grandpapa's knee!
Dear little Goldenhair! tired was she
All the day busy as busy could be!

Up in the morning as soon as 't was light-
Up with the birds and butterflies bright,
Skipping about till the coming of night.

Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head;
"What has my darling been doing?" he said,
"Since she rose, with the sun, from her bed?"

"Pitty much!" answered the sweet little one; “I cannot tell —so much things I have done: Played with my dolly and feeded my bun.

"And then I jumped with my little jump-rope, And I made bubbles out of some water and soapBootiful worlds! mamma's castles of hope!

"I afterwards readed in my picture-book; And Bella and I we went out to look

For the smooth little fishes by the side of the brook.

"And then I came home and eated my tea, And climbed up on grandpapa's knee;

And I jes as tired as tired can be!"

Lower and lower the little head pressed,
Until it had dropped upon grandpapa's breast!
Dear little Goldenhair! sweet be thy rest!

We are but children; the things that we do
Are as sports of a babe to the Infinite view,
That marks all our weakness, and pities it, too.

God grant that when night overshadows our way,
And we shall be called to account for our day,
He shall find us as guileless as Goldenhair lay!

And oh when aweary, may we be so blest
As to sink like the innocent child to our rest,
And to feel ourselves clasped to the Infinite breast!
F. BURGE SMITH.

BEAUTIFUL GRANDMAMMA.

GRANDMAMMA sits in her quaint arm-chair,
Never was lady more sweet and fair!
Her gray locks ripple like silver shells,
And her brow its own calm story tells
Of a gentle life and a peaceful even,
A trust in God and a hope in heaven!

Little girl Mary sits rocking away

In her own low seat, like some winsome fay;
Two dolly babies her kisses share,

And another one lies by the side of her chair-
Mary is fair as the morning dew-

Cheeks of roses and ribbons of blue!

"Say, grandmamma," says the pretty elf,
"Tell me a story about yourself.

When you were little what did you play?
Was you good or naughty, the whole long day?
Was it hundreds and hundreds of years ago?
And what makes your soft hair as white as snow?

"Did you have a mamma to hug and kiss?
And a dolly like this, and this, and this?
Did you have a pussy like my little Kate?
Did you go to bed when the clock struck eight?
Did you have long curls and beads like mine?
And a new silk apron, with ribbons fine?"

Grandmamma smiled at the little maid,
And laying aside her knitting, she said:
"Go to my desk and a red box you'll see;
Carefully lift it and bring it to me."
So Mary put her dollies away and ran,
Saying, "I'll be as careful as ever I can."

Then grandmamma opened the box: and lo!
A beautiful child with throat like snow,
Lips just tinted like pink shells rare,
Eyes of hazel and golden hair,

Hands all dimpled, and teeth like pearls-
Fairest and sweetest of little girls!

"Oh, who is it?" cried winsome May; "How I wish she was here to-day! Would n't I love her like everything, And give her my new carnelian ring!

Say, dear grandmamma, who can she be?"

"Darling," said grandmamma, “ that child was me!"

May looked long at the dimpled grace,

And then at the saint-like, fair old face.

"How funny!" she cried, with a smile and a kiss,

"To have such a dear little grandma as this!

Still," she added, with a smiling zest,

"I think, dear grandma, I like you best!"

So May climbed on the silken knee,

And grandma told her her history

What plays she played, what toys she had,

How at times she was naughty, or good, or sad.

"But the best thing you did," said May, "don't you see? Was to grow a beautiful grandma for me!"