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These struggling tid
Struggling tides of dife that seem

wayward ainless course to tend

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Are eddies of the mighty stream
That rolls to its appointed and
William Cullen Bryant.


Look at me with thy large brown eyes,
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!


O, the day when thou goest a-wooing,
Philip, my king!

When those beautiful lips 'gin suing,
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing,
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there
Sittest love-glorified! - Rule kindly,
Tenderly over thy kingdom fair;

For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,
Philip, my king!


from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow,
Philip, my king!

The spirit that there lies sleeping now
May rise like a giant, and make men bow
As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers.
My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer,
Let me behold thee in future years!

Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,
Philip, my king;

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,

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


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!"



WHAT is the little one thinking about?

Very wonderful things, no doubt;
Unwritten history!
Unfathomed mystery!


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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

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.



I HAVE got a new-born sister;

I was nigh the first that kissed her. When the nursing-wom 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.



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

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