THE INFANT SHAKSPEARE.

By the living waterspring,

By the grass-green fairy ring,
Pillowed on the rathe primrose,
Lies a boy in rich repose.

Yet, though honey-dews of sleep
All his crimson beauty steep-
Though like languid lily-bands,
Fall on earth his infant hands;
And the veiling eyelids win
From us all the light within;

And, but for a passing glow,
Sculptured stone might seem his brow.

Yet that marble brow beneath,

Dreams are born too strong for death; Thoughts, as with the stroke of lightning, Soul-pervading, smiting, brightning. Mighty visions are awake,

That shall yet the nations shake;

In that sleeping form enshrined,
Powers, and mysteries of mind;
That shall utter more than spell
Of a more than Oracle !

Now, on his enchanted sleep,
See the rich creations sweep;
Mark the lifting of his hand,

It has grasped a fancied wand;
Spirits, to its waving bowed,

Spring from earth, and fire and cloud.

Now he smiles! a kingly pomp

Comes with shout and silver tromp;

Or along the burnished waters

Float some fairy island's daughters-
Or, as day's empurpled smile,
Fades on the cathedral pile;
Incense-winged the evening prayer,
Rises on the dewy air.

See, the sudden writhing brow!
See, the stealing tear below!
From his lip has gone the word,
Darkness from its depths is stirred;
And on fiery blasts are borne,
Howling terrors, shapes forlorn.

But again the laughing lip

Quivers with the matchless quip;

Wit, with diamond point and play,
Bright for ever and for aye:

Boy, to witch the world-arise!

On that rose bank-SHAKSPEARE lies!

ON A LITTLE GIRL.

By William Fraser.

THAT beautiful and starry brow,
With youth and joy all splendent now-
Can it be marred by years?

That passionless and stainless breast,

Where innocence hath raised her nest-
Must it be racked by fears?

That glowing cheek and sun-bright eye
Whence laughter wings its archery—
Will it be stained with tears?

Such is, alas! the bitter doom

That waits each tenant of the tomb ;

And how canst thou, young bud of beauty be, Excluded from the pale of destiny!

But years will pass nor leave behind

One stain upon thy seraph mind

Then, come, thou fearful age!

And fears that rack thy breast may prove
The token sure of passionate love-

Such is love's heritage!