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Original.

MY BABY.

  Within a cradle, still and warm,
  There lies a little gentle form,
  Just look beneath the coverlid,
  And see the tiny sleeper hid!

  Then peep beneath the cap of lace,
  Behold his rosy happy face;
  The velvet cheek, so pure and white,
  Didst ever see a fairer sight?

  His dimpled arm across his breast,
  His chubby limbs composed to rest,
  The gentle curls of waving hair,
  Falling upon the pillow there!

  The drooping lashes shroud his eyes,
  Blue as the tinge of summer skies,
  His damask lips like tints of rose
  Which garden buds at twilight close.

  Art thou a form of human mould,
  Or stray-lamb of the heavenly fold? 
  A little herald to the earth,
  Or cherub sent to bless our hearth?

  Must evil spirits intertwine
  And lead astray that heart of thine? 
  And must thou be with sin defiled,
  That seemest now an angel child?

  Oh blessed Lamb of God! to thee
  I come, and with my baby flee
  Within thy fold, and sheltering care,
  I lay my child, and leave him there.

EUCLID, Ohio.

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Original.

THE MOTHER’S PORTRAIT.

Night was coming on.  The tall elms which beautify the little village of G——­ were waving to and fro their pendent branches, heavy with the evening damp, and as the boughs swayed against the window panes of one of the largest mansions in the town, the glass was moistened by the crystal drops.  But heavier and colder was the dew that gathered upon the forehead of the sufferer within; for extended upon the couch lay a dying woman.

The trembling hand of an aged man wiped the forehead, and the tears that stood in his eye told that his remaining days on earth must be uncheered by the kind voice and radiant smile of her who had been a mother to his children.  Those children, grown to full age, were there, and if need be could have borne clear and convincing testimony that sometimes, at least, the connection between a step-mother and her husband’s family is only productive of good.  But where were her own offspring?  Three noble looking men, and as many matrons, owed their existence and education to her, and she had hoped, ere she died, to behold once more their faces.

Soft and gentle were the hands that smoothed her pillow; low and sweet were the voices that inquired of her wants, but dear to her as were these, they were not her own, and the mother’s heart yearned once more to trace their father’s likeness in the tall dark-eyed sons who but a few years ago were cradled in her arms.  And can these feelings cause the pang which seems at once to contract the face?  So thinks her step-daughter, as she says, “They will be here to-morrow, mother.”  “It is not that, my dear,” murmured the sick one,