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POEMS OF CHILDHOOD.

INFANCY.

PHILIP, MY KING.

CRADLE SONG.

FROM "BITTER-SWEET.”
“Who bears upon his baby brow the round
And top of sovereignty."

What is the little one thinking about?

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

Unwritten history !
Philip, my king!

Unfathomed mystery !
For round thee the purple shadow lies

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 ;
O, the day when thou goest a-wooing,

He 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?
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing,

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,
For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly,

Into the light of day?
Philip, my king!

Out from the shore of the unknown sea,

Tossing in pitiful agony ;
I
gaze 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 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
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,

Forward and backward through the air ?
Philip, my king;

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,

on, 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 shadow creer

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

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.

Josial 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 BYE.

BABY MAY.

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.

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,

Spots of red
Dot his head;
Rainbows on his back are spreal;

That small speck
Is his neck ;
See him nod and beck.

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 gnat
Wears a hat.
Do you believe that ?

Black and brown

Is his gown ;

Flies can see
More than we,
So how bright their eyes must be !

Little fly,
Ope your eye ;

Spiders are near by.
For a secret I can tell,
Spiders never use flies well.

Then away
Do not stay.
Little fly, good day.

THEODORE TILTON.

WILLIE WINKIE.

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."

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,
Let him go,
Never hurt an insect so;

But no doubt
He flies out

Just to gad about.
Now 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 ! 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 !

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 ;
Thus they wipe their heads and eyes ;

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

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

anew to me.

WILLIAM MILLER.

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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,
Having toast, then a nap,

That's puss.
Black as night, with talons long,
Scratching, which is very wrong,

That's

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,

That's puss.
Killing fly, rat, or mouse,
As it runs about the house,

That's puss.
Pet of missis, “Itte mite,"
Never must be out of sight,

That's puss.

Put in some butter, do,

And some fine sugar too ;
The clock strikes eight :-
Now bring my baby's porridge straight.

TRANSLATION OF CHARLES T. BROOKS.

BABY LOUISE.

ANONYMOUS.

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.

NURSE'S WATCH.

When you

(From the " Boy's Horn of Wonders," a German Book of Nursery

Rhymes.)
THE moon it shines,

My darling whines ;
The clock strikes twelve :- God cheer
The sick, both far and near.

fold

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
Ungrateful Baby Louise

Her child with a blessing,
Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering

with thee."

M. E.

SAMUEL LOVER.

LULLABY.

FROM

THE PRINCESS.”

TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY.

SWEET and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea !
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me ;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon ;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon ;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon :
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

TIMELY blossom, Infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn and every night
Their solicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please ;
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tattling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue ;
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandoned to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,
Yet too innocent to blash;
Like the linnet in the bush
To the mother-linnet's note
Moduling her slender throat;
Chirping forth thy petty joys,
Wanton in the change of toys,
Like the linnet green, in May
Flitting to each bloomy spray ;
Wearied then and glad of rest,
Like the linnet in the nesti-
This thy present happy lot,
This in time will be forgot :
Other pleasures, other cares,

Ever busy Time prepares ;
And thou shalt in thy daughter see,
This picture, once, resembled thee.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

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;
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ;

And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman's dwelling;
And she cried, “Dermot, darling, O come back

to me!”

AMBROSE PHILIPS.

TO MY INFANT SON.

Her beads while she numbered,

The baby still slumbered,
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee :

O, blest be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning,
For I know that the angels are whispering with

thee.

Thou happy, happy elf !
(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,)

Thou tiny image of myself !
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear,)
Thou merry, laughing sprite,
With spirits, feather light,

“And while they are keeping
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

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