Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me!
And say thou wouldst rather They'd watch o'er thy father!
A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, Philip, my king!
Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way
For I know that the angels are whispering to Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray; thee."
Rebels within thee, and foes without
Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glori
Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout,
As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, "Philip, the king!"
DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.
The Child and the Watcher.
Philip, my King.
"Who bears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty."
Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my king!
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!
Oh, 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;
SLEEP on, baby on the floor,
Tired of all thy playing — Sleep with smile the sweeter for That you dropped away in; On your curls' fair roundness stand Golden lights serenely;
One cheek, pushed out by the hand, Folds the dimple inly - Little head and little foot Heavy laid for pleasure; Underneath the lids half-shut Plants the shining azure; Open-souled in noonday sun,
So, you lie and slumber; Nothing evil having done, Nothing can encumber.
I, who cannot sleep as well, Shall I sigh to view you? Or sigh further to foretell All that may undo you? Nay, keep smiling, little child, Ere the fate appeareth!
I smile, too; for patience mild Pleasure's token weareth. Nay, keep sleeping before loss; I shall sleep, though losing! As by cradle, so by cross, Sweet is the reposing.
And God knows, who sees us twain, Child at childish leisure,
I am all as tired of pain
As you are of pleasure.
Differing in this, that I, Sleeping, must be colder, And, in waking presently, Brighter to beholder - Differing in this beside
(Sleeper, have you heard me? Do you move, and open wide Your great eyes toward me?) That while I you draw withal From this slumber solely, Me, from mine, an angel shall, Trumpet-tongued and holy!
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
SWEET babe! true portrait of thy father's face, Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed! Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast. Upon that tender eye, my little friend,
Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me! I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend;
'Tis sweet to watch for thee-alone for thee!
His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow;
His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow,
Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm?
Awake, my boy!-I tremble with affright! Awake, and chase this fatal thought!- Unclose Thine eye but for one moment on the light! Even at the price of thine, give me repose! Sweet error!-he but slept-I breathe again. Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile! Oh, when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, Beside me watch to see thy waking smile? CLOTILDE DE SURVILLE. (French.)
"SUCK, baby, suck! mother's love grows by giving; Translation of H. W. LONGFELLOW. Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wast- ing:
Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tast- ing.
FOUR YEARS OLD:A NURSERY SONG.
Pien di canti, e pien di fiori. FRUGONI.
Full of little loves of ours.
Full of songs, and full of flowers.
Aн, little ranting Johnny,
For ever blithe and bonny, And singing nonny, nonny, With hat just thrown upon ye; Or whistling like the thrushes, With a voice in silver gushes; Or twisting random posies With daisies, weeds, and roses; And strutting in and out so, Or dancing all about so; With cock-up nose so lightsome, And sidelong eyes so brightsome,
And cheeks as ripe as apples, And head as rough as Dapple's, And arms as sunny shining As if their veins they'd wine in, And mouth that smiles so truly Heaven seems to have made it newly — It breaks into such sweetness With merry-lipped completeness; Ah Jack, ah Gianni mio, As blithe as Laughing Trio! -Sir Richard, too, you rattler, So christened from the Tattler, My Bacchus in his glory, My little Cor-di-fiori,
My tricksome Puck, my Robin, Who in and out come bobbing, As full of feints and frolics as That fibbing rogue Autolycus, And play the graceless robber on Your grave-eyed brother Oberon,— Ah Dick, ah Dolce-riso, How can you, can you be so?
One cannot turn a minute, But mischief—there you're in it: A-getting at my books, John, With mighty bustling looks, John, Or poking at the roses,
In midst of which your nose is;
Or climbing on a table,
No matter how unstable,
And turning up your quaint eye
And half-shut teeth, with "May n't I?" Or else you're off at play, John, Just as you'd be all day, John, With hat or not, as happens;
And there you dance, and clap hands, Or on the grass go rolling,
Or plucking flowers, or bowling,
And getting me expenses
With losing balls o'er fences; Or, as the constant trade is,
Are fondled by the ladies
With "What a young rogue this is!" Reforming him with kisses;
Till suddenly you cry out, As if you had an eye out,
So desperately tearful, The sound is really fearful;
When lo! directly after, It bubbles into laughter.
Ah rogue! and do you know, John, Why 'tis we love you so, John And how it is they let ye
Do what you like and pet ye, Though all who look upon ye, Exclaim, "Ah, Johnny, Johnny!" It is because you please 'em
Still more, John, than you tease 'em; Because, too, when not present, The thought of you is pleasant; Because, though such an elf, John, They think that if yourself, John, Had something to condemn too, You'd be as kind to them too; In short, because you're very Good-tempered, Jack, and merry; And are as quick at giving As easy at receiving;
And in the midst of pleasure Are certain to find leisure To think, my boy, of ours, And bring us lumps of flowers.
But see, the sun shines brightly; Come, put your hat on rightly, And we'll among the bushes, And hear your friends, the thrushes; And see what flowers the weather Has rendered fit to gather;
And, when we home must jog, you Shall ride my back, you rogue you,— Your hat adorned with fine leaves, Horse-chestnut, oak, and vine-leaves, And so, with green o'erhead, John, Shall whistle home to bed, John.
To a Child
EMBRACING HIS MOTHER.
LOVE thy mother, little one!
Kiss and clasp her neck again,— Hereafter she may have a son
Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. Love thy mother, little one!
Who wishes all the while to trace The mother in his future face; But 'tis to her alone uprise
His wakening arms; to her those eyes Open with joy and not surprise.
WALTER SAVAGE Landor.
The Fairy Child.
THE summer sun was sinking
With a mild light, calm and mellow; It shone on my little boy's bonny cheeks, And his loose locks of yellow.
The robin was singing sweetly,
And his song was sad and tender;
And my little boy's eyes, while he heard the
Smiled with a sweet soft splendor.
My little boy lay on my bosom
While his soul the song was quaffing; The joy of his soul had tinged his cheek, And his heart and his eye were laughing.
I sate alone in my cottage,
The midnight needle plying;
I feared for my child, for the rush's light In the socket now was dying.
There came a hand to my lonely latch, Like the wind at midnight moaning; I knelt to pray, but rose again,
For I heard my little boy groaning.
I crossed my brow and I crossed my breast, But that night my child departed— They left a weakling in his stead, And I am broken-hearted.
Oh! it cannot be my own sweet boy, For his eyes are dim and hollow; My little boy is gone—is gone,
And his mother soon will follow!
The dirge for the dead will be sung for me, And the mass be chanted meetly, And I shall sleep with my little boy, In the moonlight churchyard sweetly.
To a Child, during Sickness.
SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
My little patient boy; And balmy rest about thee Smooths off the day's annoy.
I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.
Thy sidelong pillowed meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness, Of fancied faults afraid;
The little trembling hand That wipes thy quiet tears:
These, these are things that may demand Dread memories for years.
Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
I will not think of now; And calmly, midst dear ones, my Have wasted with dry brow; But when thy fingers press And pat my stooping head, I cannot bear the gentleness- The tears are in their bed.
Ah, first-born of thy mother, When life and hope were new; Kind playmate of thy brother, Thy sister, father too;
My light, where'er I go; My bird, when prison-bound, My hand-in-hand companion-No, My prayers shall hold thee round.
To say "He has departed".
Something divine and dim Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of cherubim, Who say, "We've finished here."
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