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POEMS OF CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH.
PHILIP, MY KING.
“Who bears upon his baby brow the round
Wuat is the little one thinking about ?
Very wonderful things, vo doubt ;
Unfathomed mystery! Round whom the enshadowing purple lies Yet he chuckles, and crows, and nous, and winks, or babyhood's royal dignities.
Is if his head were as full of kinks Lay ou my neck thy tiny hand
Ind curious riddles as any sphinx ! With Love's invisible sueptre ladlen ;
Warpeil by colic, and wet by tears, I am thine Esther, to command
l'unctured by pins, and tortured by fears, Till thou shalt find a quiceu-landmaiden, Our little nephew will lose two years ; Philip, my king!
And he 'll never know
Where the summers go ; 0, the day when thou goest a-wooing,
le 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, somno gentle heart's bars unduing, Who cau follow the gossamer links Thou dlust enter, love-crowned, and there By which the manikin feels his way
Sittest love-glorified ! -- Rule kimlly, Out from the shore of the great unknown,
Bliml, and wailing, and alone,
Out from the shore of the unknown sca,
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, Muy rise like a giant, and make men bow And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tiile ! As to one Heaven-chosen among his peers.
What does he think of his mother's cyes ? My Šaul, than thy brethren taller and fairer, What does he think of his mother's hair ? Let me behold thee in future years !
What of the craille-roof, that Ries
Forward and backward through the air !
What does he think of his mother's breast,
Bure 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 wb her quick embrace Thoruy, 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.
With a tenderness she can never tell,
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 ?
Now he thinks he'll to sleep!
DIXAN MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.
Over his eyes in soft eclipse,
JOSIAH 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 !
will shortly be to christen ; And papa has made the offer, I shall have the naming of her.
Catchings up of legs and arms;
Now I wonder what would please her, –
WILLIAM Cox BENNETT.
A CRADLE HYMN.
ABBREVIATED FROM THE ORIGINAL.
CHEERS as soft as July peaches;
Hush ! my dear, lie still, and slumber
Holy angels guard thy bed ! Heavenly blessings without nuniber
Gently falling on thy head. Sleep, my babe ; thy food and raiment,
House and home, thy friends provide ; All without thy care or payment,
All thy wants are well supplied. How much better thou 'rt attended
Than the Son of God could be, When from heaven he descended,
And became a child like theo.
Soft and easy is thy cradle :
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay: When his birthplace was a stable,
And his softcst bed was hay.