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POEMS OF CHILDHOOD

AND YOUTH

POEMS OF CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH, .

CRADLE SONG.

PHILIP, MY KING.

FROM "BITTER-SWEET."

"Who bears upon hts baby brow the round

What is the little one thinking about ?
And top of sovereignty.

Very wonderful things, no doubt ;
Look at me with thy large brown eyes,

Unwritten history!
Philip, my king!

Unfathomed mystery!
Round whom the enshadowing purple lies Yet he chuckles, and crow's, and nods, and winks,
Of babyhood's royal (lignitics.

ds if his head were as full of kiuks Lay ou my neck thy tiny hand

And curious riddles as any splinx! With Love's invisible sceptrc laden ;

Warped by colie, and wet by tea:4, I am thine Esther, to command

Pumetureil by pins, and tortured by lears, Till thou shalt find a qucen-handmaiden, Our little nephew will lose two years; Philip, my king!

And he'll never know

Wlcre the summers go ;
0, the day when thou goest a-wooing, Ho need not laugh, for he'll find it so.

Philip, my king!
When those beautiful lips 'gin suing,

Who can tell what a baby thinks ?
Anl, some gentle heart's bars undoing,

Who can follow the gossamer links Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there By which the manikiu feels his way

Sittest love-glorified ! – Rule kindly, Out from the shore of the great unknown, Tenderly over thy kingilom fair ;

Blimil, and wailing, and alone,
For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,

Into the light of day?
Philip, my king!

Out from the shore of the unknown sca,

Tossing in pitiful agony ;
Up from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow,

Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,
Philip, my king!

Specked with the barks of little souls,
The spirit that there lies sleeping now

Barks that were launched on the other side, May rise like a giant, and make men bow And slipped from heaven on an cbbing tido ! As to one Heaven-chosen ainong his peers.

What does he think of his mother's eyes ? My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer, What does he think of his mother's hair ? Let me behold thee in future years !

What of the craulle-roof, that lies
Yet thy heal needleth a circlet rarer, Forward and backward through the air ?
Philip, my king ; -

What does he think of his mother's breast,

Bure 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 lie think when her quick embrace Thoruy, and cruel, and cold, and gray;

Presses liis hand and buries his face Rebels within thee and foes without

Deep where the leart-throbs sink and swek, 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, As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious,

Words she has learned to murmur well? “Philip, the king !'

Now he thinks he'll go to sleep!

I can see the shaduw creep
DINAMARIA MULOCK CRAIK.

Over his eyes in soft eclipse,
Over his brow and over his lips,
Out to his little finger-tips !
Softly sinking, down he goes !
Down he goes ! down he goes !
See! he's hushed in sweet repose.

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.

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 hier. 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 lever Lest the name that I should give her Should disgrace hier or defame hier ; I will leave papa to name her.

Catchings up of legs and armis ;
Throwings back and small alarms ;
Clutehing fingers ; straightening jurks ;
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 tougue that nothing teaches ;
All the thoughts of whose possessing
Must be wooed to light by guessing;
Slumbers, such sweet angel-scenings
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 brimning over gladuess ;
Joy in care ; delight in sadness ;
Loveliness beyond completeness ;
Sweetness distancing all sweetness ;
Beauty all that beauty may be ;
That's Muy Bennett ; that's my baby.

WILLIAM Cox BENNETT

A CRADLE HYMN.

ABBREVIATED FROM THE ORIGINAL.

MARY LAMB.

BABY MAY.

Cheeks as soft as July peaches ;
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches
Poppies paleness ; round large cycs
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 ;

Hush ! my dear, lie still, and slumber

Holy angels guard thy bed ! Heavenly blessings without number

Gently falling on thy head. Sleep, my babe ; thy food and raiment,

House and home, thy friends provide ; All without thy care or payment,

All thy wants are well supulicu. How much better thou 'rt attended

Than the Son of God could be, When from heaven he descended,

And became a child like thee.

Soft and easy is thy cradle :

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay: When his birthplace was a stable,

Aud his softest bed was hay.

See the kinder shepherds round him,

Will they go stumbling blindly in the darkness Telling wonders from the sky !

Of Sorrow's tearful shades ? There they sought him, there they found him, Or find the upland slopes of Peace and Beauty, With his virgin mother by.

Whose sunlight never fades ?

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