THE MOTHER'S HOPE.

IS there, when the winds are singing,
In the happy summer time,
When the raptured air is ringing
With earth's music, heavenward springing,
Forest chirp and village chime,

Is there, of the sounds that float
Unsighingly, a single note
Half so sweet, and clear, and wild,
As the laughter of a child?

Listen! and be now delighted!

Morn hath touched her golden strings; Earth and Sky their vows have plighted; Life and light are reunited

Amid countless carolings;
Yet, delicious as they are,
There's a sound that's sweeter far;
One that makes the heart rejoice
More than all: the human voice.
Organ finer, deeper, clearer,

Though it be a stranger's tone;
Than the winds or waters dearer;
More enchanting to the hearer,

For it answereth to his own.
But, of all its witching words,
Those are sweetest, bubbling wild,
Through the laughter of a child.
Harmonies from time-touched towers,
Haunted strains from rivulets,
Hum of bees among the flowers,
Rustling leaves and silver showers,

These, ere long, the ear forgets;
But in mine there is a sound
Ringing on the whole year round:
Heart-deep laughter that I heard
Ere my child could speak a word.

Ah! 'twas heard by ear far purer,
Fondlier formed to catch the strain,
Ear of one whose love is surer,
Hers, the mother, the endurer

Of the deepest share of pain;
Hers the deepest bliss to treasure
Memories of that cry of pleasure;
Hers to hoard, a life-time after,
Echoes of that infant laughter.

"Tis a mother's large affection

Hears with a mysterious sense Breathings that evade detection, Whisper faint, and fine inflection

Thrill in her with power intense. Childhood's honeyed words untaught

Hiveth she in loving thought,
Tones that never thence depart,
For she listens with her heart.

LAMAN BLANCHARD.

DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA. ("Castara" was Lucia, daughter of Lord Powis, and afterward the wife of the poet who thus honored her.)

IKE the violet which, alone,
Prospers in some happy shade,
My Castara lives unknown,

To no looser eye betrayed;
For she's to herself untrue,
Who delights i' th' public view.

Such is her beauty as no arts
Have enriched with borrowed grace;
Her high birth no pride imparts,
For she blushes in her place.

Folly boasts a glorious blood;
She is noblest, being good.
Cautious, she knew never yet
What a wanton courtship meant;
Nor speaks loud to boast her wit,
In her silence eloquent;

Of herself survey she takes,

But 'tween men no difference makes.

She obeys with speedy will
Her grave parents' wise commands;
And so innocent that ill
She nor acts, nor understands:

Women's feet run still astray,
If once to ill they know the way.
She sails by that rock, the court,
Where oft Honor splits her mast;
And retiredness thinks the port,
Where her fame may anchor cast:
Virtue safely cannot sit,

Where vice is enthroned for wit.
She holds that day's pleasure best,
'Where sin waits not on delight;
Without mask, or ball, or feast,
Sweetly spends a winter's night:
O'er that darkness, whence is thrust
Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust.
She her throne makes reason climb,
While wild passions captive lie:
And, each article of time,
Her pure thoughts to heaven fly:
All her vows religious be,
And her love she vows to me.

WILLIAM HABINGTON.

A

BABY was sleeping,

Its mother was weeping,

For her husband was far on the wild raging

sea;

And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman's dwelling;

And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh, come

back to me!"

Her beads while she numbered, The baby still slumbered,

And smiled in her face as she bended her

knee;

"O blessed be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.

"And while they are keeping

Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! And say thou wouldst rather