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rhyme, have disappeared from our poetry, and how our bank verse in the hands of the most popular writers has dropped its stiff Latinisms and all the awkward distortions resorted to by those who thought that by putting a sentence out of its proper shape they were writing like Milton.

I have now brought this brief survey of the progress of our poetry down to the present time, and refer the reader, for samples of it in the different stages of its existence, to those which are set before him ir bis volume.




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"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 ; 0, the day when thou goest a-wooing,

He need not laugh, for he'll find it so.
Philip, my king !
Wben 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 on, With a tenderness she can never tell, 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


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