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which we spake
which had something strange I could but mark; The leaves of memory seemed to make A mounful rusiting in the dark.
Solenny W. Longfellow
chete Slouggling tidad of life-chat lum
waqwsed ainlesí coarte to tend Ar eddied of the Preghy elecom Aratsales to t'appoiuled ludo
Milliam Cellen Bryant
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD.
PHILIP, MY KING.
What is the little one thinking about !
Very wonderful things, no doubt;
Unwritten history !
Unfathomed mystery !
Yet he chuckles, and crows, and nods, and winks, Of babyhood's royal dignities.
As if his head were as full of kinks Lay on my neck thy tiny hand
And curious riddles as any sphinx ! With Love's invisible sceptre laden ;
Warped by colic, and wet by tears, I am thine Esther, to command
Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears,
Our little nephew will lose two years ;
And he'll never know
Where the summers go ;
He need not laugh, for he 'll find it so.
Who can tell what a baby thinks ?
Who can follow the gossamer links Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there
By which the manikin feels his way Sittest love-glorified ! — Rule kindly,
Out from the shore of the great unknown, Tenderly over thy kingdom fair ;
Blind, and wailing, and alone,
Into the light of day?
Out from the shore of the unknown sea,
Tossing in pitiful agony ;
Specked with the barks of little souls,
Barks that were launched on the other side, May rise like a giant, and make men bow And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tile ! As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers.
What does he think of his mother's eyes ? My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer, What does he think of his mother's hair ? Let me behold thee in future years !
What of the cradle-roof, that flies
Forward and backward through the air ?
What does he think of his mother's breast,
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day,
Seeking it ever with fresh delight, Philip, my king!
Cup of his life, and couch of his rest? Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way
What does he think when her quick embrace Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray ;
Presses his hand and buries his face Rebels within thee and foes without
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell, Will snatch at thy crown.
But march on, With a tenderness she can never tell, glorious,
Though she murmur the words Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout,
Of all the birds,
Now he thinks he'll go to sleep !
DINAH MARIA MULOCK.
Over his eyes in soft eclipse,
JOSIANI GILBERT HOLLAND.
CHOOSING A NAME.
I HAVE got a new-born sister ;
Making every limb all motion ;
WILLIAM C. BENNETT.
CHEEKS as soft as July peaches ;
How he crawls
Yet he never falls !
There he goes
Tickling Baby's nose.
That small speck