THE BABY AND THE BOY MUSICIAN.

A cherub in its mother's arms, Look'd from a casement high— And pleasure o'er the features stray'd, As on his simple organ play'd A boy of Italy. So, day by day, his skill he plied, With still increasing zeal, For well the glittering coin he knew, Those fairy fingers gladly threw, Would buy his frugal meal. But then! alas, there came a change Unheeded was his song, And in his upraised, earnest eye There dwelt a silent wonder, why The baby slept so long. That polished brow, those lips of Rose Beneath the flowers were laid— But where the music never tires, Amid the white-robed angel choir The happy spirit stray'd. Yet lingering at the accustom'd place That minstrel ply'd his art, Though its soft symphony of words Convulsed with pain the broken chords Within a mother's heart. They told him that the babe was dead And could return no more, Dead! Dead!—to his bewildered ear, A foreign language train'd to hear— The sound no import bore. At length, by slow degrees, the truth O'er his young being stole, And with sad step he went his way No more for that blest babe to play, The tear-drop in his soul.