Philip, my King. Who bears upon his baby brow the round and top of sovereignty." L OOK at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my King! For round thee the purple shadow lies Of babyhood's regal dignities. Lay on my neck thy tiny hand With love's invisible scepter laden; I am thine Esther, to command Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, When those beautiful lips are suing, For we that love, ah! we love so blindly, I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, Ay, there lies the spirit, all sleeping now, My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer Philip, my King THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. A wreath, not of gold, but palm! One day, Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny, and bitter, and cold, and gray; Will snatch at thy crown. But go on, glorious As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, "Philip, the King!" 171 DINAH MARIA MULOCK. The Children's Hour. ETWEEN the dark and the daylight, BETW When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the children's hour. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet; The sound of a door that is opened, From my study I see in the lamplight, A whisper and then a silence, Yet I know by their merry eyes A sudden rush from the stairway; A sudden raid from the hall; By three doors left unguarded They climb up into my turret, O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape they surround me, They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, I have you fast in my fortress, In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever— Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. Angel Charlie. HE came a beauteous vision— Then vanished from my sight; His wing one moment cleaving The blackness of my night; My glad ear caught its rustle, Then sweeping by, he stole The dew-drop that his coming Had cherished in my soul. ANGEL CHARLIE. Oh, he had been my solace When grief my spirit swayed, And on his fragile being Had tender hopes been stayed; Where thought, where feeling lingered, He came; but as the blossom And hides them from the tempest Within its sheltering cup, So he his spirit gathered Back to his frightened breast, And passed from earth's grim threshold, To be the Saviour's guest. My boy-ah, me! the sweetness, I know by one sweet token With his dissolving clay. 173 Oh, by this deathless yearning, My spirit feels to heaven; I know this life so cherished, This precious, winsome creature, Oh, I would not recall thee, Rare bird of light and joy! EMILY C. JUDSON. Song of Pitcairn's Island. COME, OME, take our boy, and we will go The winds shall bring us, as they blow, The murmurs of the shore; |