THE OLD CRADLE.

And this was your Cradle? why, surely, my Jenny, Such slender dimensions go somewhat to show You were a delightfully small Pic-a-ninny Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. Your baby-days flowed in a much-troubled channel; I see you as then in your impotent strife, A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel, Perplexed with that newly-found fardel called Life. To hint at an infantine frailty is scandal; Let bygones be bygones—and somebody knows It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to dandle, Your cheeks were so velvet—so rosy your toes. Ay, here is your Cradle, and Hope, a bright spirit, With Love now is watching beside it, I know. They guard the small nest you yourself did inherit Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. It is Hope gilds the future,—Love welcomes it smiling; Thus wags this old world, therefore stay not to ask— "My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?" If masked, still it pleases—then raise not the mask. Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing? He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust; For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to coffin— From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust. Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny! Though blossoms of promise are lost in the rose, I still see the face of my small Pic-a-ninny Unchanged, for these cheeks are as blooming as those. Ay, here is your Cradle! much, much to my liking, Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped; But, hark! as I'm talking there's six o'clock striking, It is time Jenny's baby should be in its bed!