She claims but loving trusting hearts!—­
  Let all their wealth be shown!—­
No law can take, nor ballot give
  The jewels of her crown! 
These, these, are all a woman’s rights—­
  Quite easy to attain—­
For most she governs, it is said,
  “When least she seems to reign.”

ONLY A BABY.

My way was stopped, as I hurried on,
  A carriage pass’d—­and again ’twas clear,
But my glance took in the tiny box,
  And the mourners bending near. 
“Only a baby”—­was lightly said—­
  As I safely crossed the street,
But my heart went with the little group,
  With their darling at their feet.

“Only a baby,”—­God but knows
  The mother’s bleeding heart;
And the father’s white, sad face would tell,
  How hard it is to part. 
“Only a baby!” what a void,
  In a merry, cheery home;
An empty cradle, a half worn shoe;
  And a mother’s broken tone.

“Only a baby!” the aching eyes
  Look out on the busy street,
And fall on other laughing babes,
  And the silent form at her feet. 
“Only a baby!” a desolate home,
  Those stricken hearts will know,
When they lay their darling down to rest,
  ’Neath the willows bending low.

“Only a baby!” how cold it seemed
  To speak of the angel near,—­
My heart went after the snowy form. 
  For its parents I breathed a prayer: 
“Only a baby!” ah, the weary day
  And the sleepless night,
The feverish longing—­the aching heart—­
  For the baby gone from sight!

“Only a baby!” the heart sobs out,
  What hopes lie shatter’d here,
The broken bud—­the tiny frame,
  An angel hovering near. 
“Only a baby!”—­the years creep by—­
  ‘Twill ever be, tho’ locks be gray;
Growing no older—­only their babe;
  As years before it passed away.

TO HELEN,

ON WRITING A SECOND TIME IN HER ALBUM.

You plucked a grey hair from my head,
  To-day, as you stood near me: 
There’s plenty more, that are deftly hid
  By wavy crimps,—­I fear me. 
’Tis many years since last I wrote,
  With fun, and spirits plenty;
But now my fourth son has a vote,
  And my babe’s not far from twenty. 
Ah! so it goes; old time strides on,
  Nor cares for years, and worries,
But knocks us here; and hits us there,
  As past us quick he hurries;
We still are friends, and have our fun,
  In spite of years, and trouble;
We’ve planted, reaped, and had our day. 
  And now we’re in the stubble.

RACHEL ELIZABETH PATTERSON.

Rachel Elizabeth Patterson, better known as Lizzie Patterson, is the daughter of William Patterson and Sarah (Catts) Patterson, and was born in Port Deposit, February 2, 1820.  She is also the granddaughter of an Englishman who settled on Taylor’s Island, in Chesapeake Bay, where he owned considerable property, which by some means seems to have been lost by his family.