Tupper.    

	Of all the joys that brighten suffering earth,
	What joy is welcom’d like a new-born child?

Mrs. Norton.    

	A young star, who shone
	O’er life, too sweet an image for such gloss,
	A lovely being scarcely form’d or moulded,
	A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.

Byron.    

	Joy them bring’st, but mix’d with trembling;
	Anxious hopes and tender fears,
	Pleasing hopes and mingled sorrows,
	Smiles of transport dashed with tears.

Cottle.    

	’Tis aye a solemn thing to me
	To look upon a babe that sleeps—
	Wearing in its spirit-deeps
	The unrevealed mystery
	Of its Adam’s taint and woe,
	Which, when they revealed lie,
	Will not let it slumber so.

Mrs. Browning.    

	The hour arrives, the moment wish’d and fear’d,
	The child is born by many a pang endear’d,
	And now the mother’s ear has caught his cry;
	O grant the cherub to her asking eye!
	He comes—she clasps him. To her bosom press’d
	He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest.

Rogers.