All children of the earth. For me his suit Hath well prevailed, thank God! A happy wife, A happy mother, I have naught to ask: My blessings overflow. _Raphael_. Thanks for thy tale, Most gracious mother. See thy babe is lulled To smiling sleep. _Maria_. Yea, and the silence now Awakens him. Ah, darling rogue, art flushed With too much comfort? So! let the cool air Play with thy curls and fan the plump, hot cheek. _Raphael_. Hold, as the child uplifts his cherub face, Opens his soft small arms to stroke thy cheek, Crowing with glee, while the slant sunbeams light A halo of gold fire about thy hair, I see again a canvas that is hung Over the altar in our church at home. "_Mater amabilis_," yet here be traits, Colors and tones the artist never dreamed. Sweet mother, let me sketch thee with thy babe: So rare a picture should not pass away With the brief moment which it illustrates. _Maria_. Art thou a painter too, Sir Traveler? Where be thy brush and colors? _Raphael_. Ah, 'tis true, Naught have I with me. What is this? 'twill serve My purpose. _Maria_. 'Tis the cover of a cask, Made of the very oak whereof I spake: My father for his wine-casks felled the tree. _Raphael_. A miracle! the hermit's daughters thus Will be remembered in the years to come. My pencil will suffice to scratch the lines Upon the wood: my memory will hold The lights, the tints, the golden atmosphere, The genius of the scene--the mother-love. EMMA LAZARUS. EARLY TRAVELING EXPERIENCES IN INDIA.