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Oh,
, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day,
And say thou wouldst rather

Philip, my king!
They'd watch o'er thy father!

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-
The 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

Dinau MARIA MULOCK CRAIK. Her child with a blessing, Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee."

SAMUEL LOVER.

The Child and the watcher.

SLEEP on, baby on the floor,
Philip, my king.

Tired of all thy playing

Sleep with smile the sweeter for
“Who bears upon his baby brow the round

That you dropped away in ;
And top of sovereignty."

On your curls' fair roundness stand
Look at me with thy large brown eyes,

Golden lights serenely;
Philip, my king!

One cheek, pushed out by the hand,
For round thee the purple shadow lies

Folds the dimple inly Of babyhood's royal dignities.

Little head and little foot Lay 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;
Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden,

Open-souled in noonday sun,
Philip, my king!

So, you lie and slumber;

Nothing evil having done,
Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing,

Nothing can encumber.
Philip, my king!
When those beautiful lips 'gin suing,

I, who cannot sleep as well,
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing,

Shall I sigh to view you ? 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,
For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,

Ere the fate appeareth!
Philip, my king!

I smile, too; for patience mild

Pleasure's token weareth.
I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow,

Nay, keep sleeping before loss;
Philip, my king!

I shall sleep, though losing!
The spirit that there lies sleeping now,

As by cradle, so by cross,
May rise like a giant, and make men bow

Sweet is the reposing.
As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers.
My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer,

And God knows, who sees us twain,
Let me behold thee in future years!

Child at childish leisure,
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,

I am all as tired of pain
Philip, my king -

As you are of pleasure.

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Very soon, too, by His grace,
Gently wrapt around me,

The Child Asleep.
I shall show as calm a face,
I shall sleep as soundly –

SWEET babe! true portrait of thy father's face,
Differing in this, that you

Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed !
Clasp your playthings sleeping,

Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place
While my hand must drop the few

Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast.
Given to my keeping -

Upon that tender eye, my little friend,

Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me!
Differing in this, that I,

I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend;
Sleeping, must be colder,

'Tis sweet to watch for thee — alone for thee!
And, in waking presently,
Brighter to beholder -

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 met

Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow,
Do you move, and open wide

Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm
Your great eyes toward me 1)

Awake, my boy!- I tremble with affright!
That while I you draw withal
From this slumber solely,

Awake, and chase this fatal thought !- Unclose
Me, from mine, an angel shall,

Thine eye but for one moment on the light!

Even at the price of thine, give me repose !
Trumpet-tongued and holy !
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 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,
The Gipsy's Malison.

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. . Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting.

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,

Full of songs, and full of flowers.
Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses
Tend thee the kiss that poisons ʼmid 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,
CHARLES LAMB.

And sidelong eyes so brightsome,

FOUR YEARS OLD:A NURSERY SONG,

TO J. H.-A NURSERY SONG.

119

When lo! directly after, It bubbles into laughter.

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 ?

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.

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;

But see, the sun shines brightly;
Come, put your hat on rightly,
And we'll among the bushes,
And hear your friends, the tbrushes;
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.

LEIGH HUNT.

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!

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 !

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.

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!

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

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.

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!

Thomas Hood.

On the Picture of an Infant

PLAYING NEAR A PRECIPICE.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 wili be sung for me,

And the mass be chanted meetly, And I shall sleep with my little boy,

In the moonlight churchyard sweetly.

His startled eyes with wonder see A father near him on his knee,

JOAN ANSTER.

TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

121

Something divine and dim

Seems going by one's ear,
Like parting wings of cherubim,
Who say, “We've finished here."

LEIGH HUNT.

Co 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.
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 my dear ones,
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 ”.

“ His voice” –“his face" - is gone, To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on

Ah, I could not endure
To whisper of such woe,
Unless I felt this sleep ensure

That it will not be so.
Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping !

This silence too the while-
Its very hush and creeping

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

flocks.
What hast thou to do with sorrow,
Or the injuries of to-morrow?
Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings

forth,
Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks,
Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;
A gem that glitters while it lives,
And no forewarning gives,
But, at the touch of wrongs, without a strife,
Slips in a moment out of life.

WILLIAX WORDSWORTH.

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