POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. INFANCY. PHILIP, MY KING. "Who bears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty." Look at me with thy large brown eyes, *For round thee the purple shadow lies With Love's invisible sceptre laden; Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, O, the day when thou goest a-wooing, When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, For we that love, ah! we love so blindly, CRADLE SONG. FROM "BITTER-SWEET." WHAT is the little one thinking about? Unwritten history! Yet he chuckles, and crows, and nods, and winks, Where the summers go; He need not laugh, for he'll find it so. Who can tell what a baby thinks? By which the manikin feels his way Into the light of day? Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, Cup of his life, and couch of his rest ? Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell, Of all the birds, Words she has learned to murmur well ? 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. Now I wonder what would please her, Lest the name that I should give her BABY MAY. MARY LAMB. CHEEKS as soft as July peaches; Making every limb all motion; To be caught from tray or table; ச I can show you, if you choose, Three small pairs, These he always wears. Black and brown Is his gown; He can wear it upside down; It is laced Round his waist; I admire his taste. Yet though tight his clothes are made, He will lose them, I'm afraid, If to-night He gets sight Of the candle-light. In the sun Webs are spun ; What if he gets into one? When it rains He complains On the window-panes. Tongue to talk have you and I; God has given the little fly No such things, So he sings With his buzzing wings. He can eat Bread and meat; There's his mouth between his feet. On his back Is a pack Like a pedler's sack. Does the baby understand? Then the fly shall kiss her hand; Put a crumb On her thumb, Maybe he will come. Catch him? No, Let him go, Never hurt an insect so; But no doubt He flies out Just to gad about. Now you see his wings of silk Drabbled in the baby's milk; Fie, O fie, Foolish fly ! How will he get dry ? All wet flies Twist their thighs ; Thus they wipe their heads and eyes; Cats, you know, Wash just so, Then their whiskers grow. Flies have hairs too short to comb, So they fly bareheaded home; But the gnat Wears a hat. Do you believe that? Flies can see More than we, So how bright their eyes must be ! Little fly, Ope your eye; Spiders are near by. For a secret I can tell, Spiders never use flies well. Then away Do not stay. Little fly, good day. THEODORE TILTON. WILLIE WINKIE. WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town, "Are the weans in their bed? - for it's now ten o'clock." Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben? The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep; But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep. Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue: - glow'rin' like the moon, Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock, Skirlin' like a kenna-what-wauknin' sleepin' folk ! Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums: Hey, Willie Winkie! - See, there he comes ! Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane, That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he'll close an ee; But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me. WILLIAM MILLER, 中 I'm in love with you, Baby Louise! Why! you never raise your beautiful head! Some day, little one, your cheek will grow red O, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! With a flush of delight, to hear the words said, For I know that the angels are whispering to And say thou wouldst rather They'd watch o'er thy father! "I love you," Baby Louise. thee." Do you hear me, Baby Louise ? The dawn of the morning I have sung your praises for nearly an hour, Saw Dermot returning, And your lashes keep drooping lower and lower, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ; And you've gone to sleep, like a weary flower, And closely caressing Ungrateful Baby Louise! Her child with a blessing, LULLABY. FROM "THE PRINCESS." SWEET and low, sweet and low, While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Under the silver moon : Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. ALFRED TENNYSON. THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. In Ireland they have a pretty fancy, that, when a child smiles in its sleep, it is "talking with angels." A BABY was sleeping; For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; And the tempest was swelling And she cried, "Dermot, darling, O come back to me!" Her beads while she numbered, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee: "O, blest be that warning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. "And while they are keeping TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY. TIMELY blossom, Infant fair, Fondling of a happy pair, Every morn and every night Their solicitous delight, Sleeping, waking, still at ease, Pleasing, without skill to please; Little gossip, blithe and hale, Tattling many a broken tale, Singing many a tuneless song, Lavish of a heedless tongue; Simple maiden, void of art, Babbling out the very heart, Yet abandoned to thy will, Yet imagining no ill, Yet too innocent to blush; Like the linnet in the bush To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat; Chirping forth thy petty joys, Wanton in the change of toys, Like the linnet green, in May Flitting to each bloomy spray; Wearied then and glad of rest, Like the linnet in the nest :This thy present happy lot, This in time will be forgot: Other pleasures, other cares, Ever busy Time prepares; And thou shalt in thy daughter see, This picture, once, resembled thee. AMBROSE PHILIPS. TO MY INFANT SON. THOU happy, happy elf! (But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear,) Thou merry, laughing sprite, With spirits, feather light, |