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Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! 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, gloriThe dawn of the morning
ous, Saw Dermot returning,
Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to
As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, see;
"Philip, the king!” And closely caressing
DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK. Her child with a blessing, Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.”
The Child and the watcher.
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 Or babyhood's royal dignities.
Little head and little foot Lay on my neck thy tiny hand
Heavy laid for pleasure; With Love's invisible sceptre laden;
Underneath the lids half-shut I am thine Esther, to command
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 1 Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there
Or sigh further to foretell Sittest love-glorified !— Rule kindly,
All that may undo you ! Tenderly over thy kingdom fair;
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.
Very soon, too, by His grace,
The Child Asleep.
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; Differing in this beside
His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. (Sleeper, have you heard me
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 !
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
To J. 4. Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting.
FOUR YEARS OLD:- A NURSERY SONG.
Pien d'amori, “Kiss, baby, kiss! mother's lips shine by kisses ;
Pien di canti, e pien di fiori. FRUGONI. Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings:
Full of little loves of ours, Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses
Full of songs, and full of flowers. Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings.
Ah, little ranting Johnny,
For ever blithe and bonny, “ Hang, baby, hang ! mother's love loves such
And singing nonny, nonny, forces;
With hat just thrown upon ye; Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy
Or whistling like the thrushes, clinging:
With a voice in silver gushes ; Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses
Or twisting random posies Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging."
With daisies, weeds, and roses; So sang a withered beldam energetical,
And strutting in and out so, And banned the ungiving door with lips prophet
Or dancing all about so; ical.
With cock-up nose so lightsome,
And sidelong eyes so brightsome,
TO J. H.-A NURSERY SONG.
And cheeks as ripe as apples,
When lo! directly after,
One cannot turn a minute,
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
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
Gaze upon her living eyes,
And mirror back her love for thee,Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighs
To meet them when they cannot see. Gaze upon her living eyes ! Press her lips the while they glow
With love that they have often told, Hereafter thou mayst press in woe,
And kiss them till thine own are cold. Press her lips the while they glow! Oh, revere her raven hair!
Although it be not silver-grayToo early Death, led on by Care,
May snatch save one dear lock away. Oh, revere her raven hair!
Pray for her at eve and morn,
That Heaven may long the stroke defer ; For thou mayst live the hour forlorn
When thou wilt ask to die with her. Pray for her at eve and morn!
Ôn the picture of an Infant
PLAYING NEAR A PRECIPICE. While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels,
And the blue vales a thousand joys recall, See, to the last, last verge her infant steals!
Oh, fly-yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall.Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare, And the fond boy springs back to nestle there.
LEONIDAS of Alexandria. (Greek.) Translation of SAMUEL ROGERS.
The fairy Child.
With a mild light, calm and mellow;
And his loose locks of yellow.
And his song was sad and tender ; And my little boy's eyes, while he heard the
song 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;
In the socket now was dying.
Like the wind at midnight moaning;
For I heard my little boy groaning.
But that night my child departed —
And I am broken-hearted.
For his eyes are dim and hollow;
And his mother soon will follow!
And the mass be chanted meetly,
Children. CHILDREN are what the mothers are. No fondest father's fondest care Can fashion so the infant heart As those creative beams that dart, With all their hopes and fears, upon The cradle of a sleeping son. His startled eyes with wonder see A father near him on his knee,
TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE.
Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear,
To hartley Coleridge.
SIX YEARS OLD. O thou whose fancies from afar are brought; Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, And fittest to unutterable thought The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol, Thou fairy voyager! that dost float In such clear water, that thy boat May rather seem To brood on air than on an earthly stream Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, Where earth and heaven do make one imagery; O blessed vision ! happy child ! Thou art so exquisitely wild, I think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years.
To a Child, during Sickness.
My little patient boy;
I sit me down, and think
That I had less to praise.
Thy thanks to all that aid,
The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears : These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.
I will not think of now;
But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
The tears are in their bed.
When life and hope were new;
My light, where'er I go;
My bird, when prison-bound,
My prayers shall hold thee round.
"His voice” –“his face" - is gone,
Ah, I could not endure
That it will not be so.
This silence too the while -
Seem whispering us a smile;
I thought of times when Pain might be thy
guest, Lord of thy house and hospitality; And Grief, uneasy lover, never rest But when she sat within the touch of thee. O too industrious folly! O vain and causeless melancholy! Nature will either end thee quite; Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, Preserve for thee, by individual right, A young lamb's heart among the full-grown