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These struggling tides of Life that seem

wayward aimless course to tend

In

Are eddies of the mighty slocam

That rolls to its appointed and
William Cullen Bryanto

POEMS OF CHILDHOOD.

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

INFANCY.

PHILIP, MY KING.

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

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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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,

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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,

Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, With a tenderness she can never tell,

glorious,

Though she murmur the words

Of all the birds,

A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day,
Philip, my king!

Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way

Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray;
Rebels within thee and foes without

Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout,
As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious,
"Philip, the king!"

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

Words she has learned to murmur well?
Now he thinks he'll go to sleep!
I can see the shadow creep

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 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.

MARY LAMB.

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;
Loveliness beyond completeness ;
Sweetness distancing all sweetness ;
Beauty all that beauty may be ; -
That's May Bennett ; that 's my baby.

WILLIAM C. BENNETT.

BABY MAY.

CHEEKS as soft as July reaches ;
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,

BABY BYE.
BABY Bye,
Here's a fly;
Let us watch him, you and I.

How he crawls
Up the walls,

Yet he never falls !
I believe with six such legs
You and I could walk on eggs.

There he goes
On his toes,

Tickling Baby's nose.
Spots of red
Dot his head ;
Rainbows on his back are spread;

That small speck
Is his neck;
See him nod anı xech.

I can show you, if you choose,
Where to look to find his shoes, -

Three small pairs,
Made of hairs;
These he always wears.

Flies have hairs too short to comb,
So they fly bareheaded home ;

But the guat
Wears a hat.
Do you believe that ?

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Black and brown
Is his gown;
He can wear it upside down ;

It is laced
Round his waist;

I admire his taste.
Yet though tight his clothes are made,
He will lose them, I'm afraid,

If to-night
He gets sight

Of the candle-light.
In the sun
Webs are spun ;
What if he gets into one ?

When it rains
He complains

On the window-panes.
Tongue to talk have you and I;
God has given the little fly

No such things,
So he sings

With his buzzing wings.
He can eat
Bread and meat ;
There's his mouth between his feet.

On his back
Is a pack

Like a pedler's sack.
Does the baby understand ?
Then the fly shall kiss her hand ;

Put a crumb
On her thumb,

Maybe he will come.
Catch him? No,

WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town,
Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,
“Are the weans in their bed ? for it's now ten

o'clock."

Hey, Willie Winkie ! are ye comin' ben ?
The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin'

hen, The doug 's speldered on the floor, and disna gie

a cheep; But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa'

asleep.

Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue :- glow'rin' like

the moon, Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a

cock, Skirlin' like a kenna-what – wauknin' sleepin'

folk !

Let him go,

a

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Now

Never hurt an insect so;

But no doubt
He flies out
Just to gad about.

you see his wings of silk Drabbled in the baby's milk ;

Fie, O fie,
Foolish fly!
How will he get dry ?

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean 's in a creel ! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her

thrums : Hey, Willie Winkie ! - See, there he comes !

All wet flies
Twist their thighs ;

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean,
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his

lane, That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he 'll close

an ee; But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength

Thus they wipe their heads and eyes ;

Cats, you know,
Wash just so,
Then their whiskers grow.

а

anew to me.

WILLIAM MILLER.

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