FOR CHILDREN. 141

And the murdered babes bewail ;
Yet so greedy of thy pain,

That when all my lore would fail,
I must needs begin again !

I miss thee from my side,
In the haunts that late were thine ;
Where thy twinkling feet would glide,
And thy clasping fingers twine;
Here are chequered tumblers nine—
Silent relics of thy play—
Here the mimic tea-things shine,
Thou wouldst wash the live-long day !

Thy drum hangs on the wall ;
Thy bird-organ sounds are o’er,
Dogs and horses, great and small,
Wanting some a leg or more;
Cows and sheep—a motley store—-
All are stabled ‘neath thy bed ;
And not one but can restore
Memories sweet of him that’s fled

I miss thee from my side,
Blithe cricket of my hearth!
Oft in secret have I sighed
For thy chirping voice of mirth ;
When the low-bred cares of earth
Chill my heart or dim my eye,
Grief is stifled in its birth
If my little prattler’s nigh !
A, A, Watts.