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THE WIFE'S BECAUSE.

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T is not because your heart is minemine only

Mine alone;

It is not because you chose me, weak and lonely,

For your own;

Not because the earth is fairer, and the skies Spread above you

Are more radiant for the shining of your

eyes,

That I love you!

It is not because the world's perplexed meaning Grows more clear,

And the parapets of Heaven, with angels leaning,

Seem more near;

And Nature sings of praise with all her voices Since yours spoke,

Since within my silent heart, that now rejoices, Love awoke!

THE WIFE'S BECAUSE.

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Nay, not even because your hand holds heart and life;

At your will,

Soothing, hushing all its discord, making strife Calm and still;

Teaching Trust to fold her wings, nor ever

roam

From her nest;

Teaching Love that her securest, safest home Must be Rest.

But because this human Love, though true and sweet,

Yours and mine,

Has been sent by Love more tender, more complete,

More divine,

That it leads our hearts to rest at last in heaven,

Far above you,

Do I take you as a gift that God has given
And I love you!

Adelaide Proctor.

BABY MAY.

HEEKS as soft as July peaches, Lips, whose dewy scarlet teaches Poppies paleness; -round large eyes, Ever great with new surprise; Minutes filled with shadeless gladness, Minutes just as brimmed with sadness; Happy smiles and wailing cries, Crows and laughs and tearful eyes; Lights and shadows swifter borne Than on wind-swept autumn corn; Ever some new tiny notion, Making every limb all motion — Catchings up of legs and arms, Throwings back, and small alarms, Clutching fingers, straightening jerks, Twining feet, whose each toe works, Kickings up and straining risings, Mother's ever-new surprisings!

Hands all wants, and looks all wonder At all things the heavens under;

BABY MAY.

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Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings

That have more of love than lovings;
Mischiefs done with such a winning
Archness, that we prize such sinning;
Breakings dire of plates and glasses,
Graspings small at all that passes,

Pullings off from tray or table;

Silences, small meditations,

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Deep as thoughts of cares for nations,
Breaking into wisest speeches,
In a tongue that nothing teaches;
All the thoughts of whose possessing
Must be wooed to light by guessing;
Slumbers, such sweet angel-seemings,
That we'd ever have such dreamings,
Till from sleep we see thee breaking,
And we'd always have thee waking;
Wealth, for which we know no measure,
Pleasure high above all pleasure,
Gladness brimming over gladness,
Joy in care, delight in sadness,
Loveliness beyond completeness,
Sweetness distancing all sweetness,
Beauty all that beauty may be-
That's May Bennett, — that's my baby.

Bennett.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

ER, by her smile, how soon the stranger knows!

How soon by his the glad discovery shows,

As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy! What answering looks of sympathy and joy! He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word,

His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard, And ever, ever to her lap he flies,

When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise. Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung (That name most dear forever on his tongue), As with soft accents round her neck he clings, And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings!

How blest to feel the beatings of his heart, Breathe his sweet breath, and bliss for bliss. impart ;

Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding

dove,

And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!

Samuel Rogers.

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