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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, Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, Our little nephew will lose two years ; Philip, my king!
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 ;
Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,
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
With a tenderness she can never tell,
Though she murmur the words
Of all the birds,
Now he thinks he'll go to sleep !
DINAH MARIA MULOCK.
Over his eyes in soft eclipse,
Josial GILBERT HOLLAND.
CHOOSING A NAME.
I HAVE got a new-born sister ;
Making every limb all motion ;
WILLIAM C. BENNETT.
, Here's a fly; Let us watch him, you and I.
How he crawls
Yet he never falls !
There he goes
CHEEKS as soft as July peaches ;
Spots of red
That small speck
I can show you, if you choose,
Three small pairs,
Flies have hairs too short to comb,
But the gnat
Black and brown
Is his gown ;
Flies can see
Spiders are near by.
WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town,
He can wear it upside down;
It is laced
I admire his taste.
Of the candle-light.
When it rains
On the window-panes.
No such things,
With his buzzing wings.
On his back
Like a pedler's sack.
Put a crumb
Maybe he will come.
But no doubt
Just to gad about.
Fie, O fie,
Hey, Willie Winkie ! are ye comin' ben ?
hen, The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie
a cheep; But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa'
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'
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
Cats, you know,
Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean,
lane, That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he 'll close
an ee; But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength
anew to me.
The swallow's laugh the still air shakes,
The sun awakes ; The clock strikes five : the traveller must be
gone, He puts his stockings on.
The hen is clacking,
The ducks are quacking ; The clock strikes six : -- awake, arise, Thou lazy hag; come, ope thy eyes.
Quick to the baker's run;
The rolls are done ; The clock strikes seven :'Tis time the milk were in the oven.
Purring loud on missis' lap,
puss. From a saucer lapping milk, Soft, as soft as washing silk,
That's puss. Rolling on the dewy grass, Getting wet, all in a mass,
That's puss. Climbing tree, and catching bird, Little twitter nevermore heard,
Put in some butter, do,
And some fine sugar too ;
TRANSLATION OF CHARLES T. BROOKS.
I'm in love with you, Baby Louise ! With your silken hair, and your soft blue eyes, And the dreamy wisdom that in them lies, And the faint, sweet smile you brought from the
skies, God's sunshine, Baby Louise.
(From the " Boy's Horn of Wonders," a German Book of Nursery
My darling whines ;
your hands, Baby Louise, Your hands, like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, With a pretty, innocent, saint-like air, Are you trying to think of some angel-taught
prayer You learned above, Baby Louise ?
I'm in love with you, Baby Louise !
O, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! Why ! you never raise your beautiful head !
And say thou wouldst rather Some day, little one, your cheek will grow red They'd watch o'er thy father ! With a flush of delight, to hear the words said, For I know that the angels are whispering to “I love you,” Baby Louise.
thee.” Do hear me, Baby Louise ?
The dawn of the morning you I have sung your praises for nearly an hour,
Saw Derinot returning, And your lashes keep drooping lower and lower, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ; And — you've gone to sleep, like a weary flower,
And closely caressing
Her child with a blessing,
TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY.
SWEET and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Wind of the western sea !
Blow him again to me ;
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon ;
Father will come to thee soon ;
Under the silver moon :
TIMELY blossom, Infant fair,
Ever busy Time prepares ;
THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.
In Ireland they have a pretty fancy, that, when a child smiles in its sleep, it is " talking with angels."
A BABY was sleeping;
Its mother was weeping;
And the tempest was swelling
Round the fisherman's dwelling;
TO MY INFANT SON.
Her beads while she numbered,
The baby still slumbered,
“O, blest be that warning,
My child, thy sleep adorning,
Thou happy, happy elf !
Thou tiny image of myself !
“And while they are keeping