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POEMS OF INFANCY AND YOUTH

INFANCY.

PHILIP, MY KING.

Who bears upon his baby brow the round
And top of sovereignty."

Look at me with thy large brown eyes,
Philip, my king!

For round thee the purple shadow lies
Of babyhood's royal dignities.
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand

With Love's invisible sceptre laden ;

I am thine Esther, to command

Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, Philip, my king!

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CRADLE SONG.

FROM BITTER-SWEET."

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,
As if his head were as full of kinks
And curious riddles as any sphinx!

Warped by colic, and wet by tears,
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

By which the manikin feels his way
Out from the shore of the great unknown,
Blind, and wailing, and alone,

Into the light of day?

Out from the shore of the unknown sea,
Tossing in pitiful agony ;

Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,
Specked with the barks of little souls,
Barks that were launched on the other side,
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide!
What does he think of his mother's eyes?
What does he think of his mother's hair?
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,
Seeking it ever with fresh delight,

Cup of his life, and couch of his rest?
What does he think when her quick embrace
Presses his hand and buries his face
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell,
With a tenderness she can never tell,
Though she murmur the words
Of all the birds,

Words she has learned to murmur well?
Now he thinks he 'll go to sleep!

I can see the shadow creep

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CHEEKS as soft as July peaches;
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches
Poppies paleness; round large eyes
Ever great with new surprise;

Minutes filled with shadeless gladness;
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness
Happy smiles and wailing cries ;
Crows, and laughs, and tearful eyes;
Lights and shadows, swifter born
Than on wind-swept autumn corn ;
Ever some new tiny notion,
Making every limb all motion;
Catchings up of legs and arms;
Throwings back and small alarms;
Clutching fingers; straightening jerks;
Twining feet whose each toe works;
Kickings up and straining risings;
Mother's ever new surprisings ;
Hands all wants and looks all wonder
At all things the heavens under ;
Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings
That have more of love than lovings;
Mischiefs done with such a winning
Archness that we prize such sinning;
Breakings dire of plates and glasses;
Graspings small at all that passes;
Pullings off of all that 's able
To be caught from tray or table ;
Silences, small meditations
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations ;
Breaking into wisest speeches
In a tongue that nothing teaches ;
All the thoughts of whose possessing
Must be wooed to light by guessing
Slumbers, such sweet angel-seemings
That we'd ever have such dreamings;

Till from sleep we see thee breaking,
And we'd always have thee waking ;
Wealth for which we know no measure;
Pleasure high above all pleasure ;
Gladness brimming over gladness;
Joy in care; delight in sadness;
Lovėliness beyond completeness;
Sweetness distancing all sweetness;
Beauty all that beauty may be ;
That's May Bennett; that's my baby.

WILLIAM C. BENNETT.

CHOOSING A NAME.

I HAVE got a new-born sister;

I was nigh the first that kissed her.
When the nursing-woman brought her
To papa, his infant daughter,

How papa's dear eyes did glisten!
She will shortly be to christen;
And papa has made the offer,

I shall have the naming of her.

Now I wonder what would please her,
Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa?
Ann and Mary, they're too common;
Joan's too formal for a woman ;
Jane's a prettier name beside;
But we had a Jane that died.
They would say, if 't was Rebecca,
That she was a little Quaker.
Edith's pretty, but that looks
Better in old English books;
Ellen 's left off long ago;
Blanche is out of fashion now.
None that I have named as yet
Are so good as Margaret.
Emily is neat and fine;

What do you think of Caroline ?
How I'm puzzled and perplexed
What to choose or think of next!

I am in a little fever

Lest the name that I should give her Should disgrace her or defame her;

I will leave papa to name her.

THE BABY.

MARY LAMB.

WHERE did you come from, baby dear? Out of the everywhere into here.

Where did you get your eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through.

Where did you get that little tear? I found it waiting when I got here.

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What makes your forehead so smooth and high? | Will they go stumbling blindly in the darkness A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? I saw something better than any one knows.

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

Where did you get this pearly ear? God spoke, and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands? Love made itself into hooks and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? From the same box as the cherubs' wings.

How did they all come to be you? God thought about me, and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, you dear? God thought about you, and so I am here.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

LITTLE FEET.

Two little feet, so small that both may nestle
In one caressing hand,

Two tender feet upon the untried border
Of life's mysterious land.

Dimpled, and soft, and pink as peach-tree blossoms,

In April's fragrant days,

How can they walk among the briery tangles, Edging the world's rough ways?

These rose-white feet, along the doubtful future,
Must bear a mother's load;

Alas! since Woman has the heaviest burden,
And walks the harder road.

Love, for a while, will make the path before them
All dainty, smooth, and fair,

Will cull away the brambles, letting only
The roses blossom there.

But when the mother's watchful eyes are shrouded Away from sight of men,

And these dear feet are left without her guiding, Who shall direct them then?

How will they be allured, betrayed, deluded,
Poor little untaught feet!

Into what dreary mazes will they wander,
What dangers will they meet?

Of Sorrow's tearful shades?

Or find the upland slopes of Peace and Beauty, Whose sunlight never fades?

Will they go toiling up Ambition's summit, The common world above?

Or in some nameless vale, securely sheltered, Walk side by side with Love?

Some feet there be which walk Life's track unwounded,

Which find but pleasant ways: Some hearts there be to which this life is only A round of happy days.

But these are few. Far more there are who wander

Without a hope or friend, Who find their journey full of pains and losses, And long to reach the end.

How shall it be with her, the tender stranger, Fair-faced and gentle-eyed,

Before whose unstained feet the world's rude highway

Stretches so fair and wide?

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