POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. BABY MAY. CHEEKS as soft as July peaches; ERE last year's moon had left the sky, Her tiny wings upon my breast. From morn till evening's purple tinge, In winsome helplessness she lies; Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe, Shut softly on her starry eyes. There's not in Ind a lovelier bird; Broad earth owns not a happier nest; O God, thou hast a fountain stirred, Whose waters never more shall rest! This beautiful, mysterious thing, This seeming visitant from heaven, This bird with the immortal wing, To me, to me, thy hand has given. The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, The blood its crimson hue from mine; This life, which I have dared invoke, Henceforth is parallel with thine. A silent awe is in my room I tremble with delicious fear; Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise; EMILY CHUBBOCK JUDSON. PHILIP MY KING. "Who bears upon his baby brow the round Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Round whom the enshadowing purple lies With Love's invisible sceptre laden; Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden, Philip, my king! Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, For we that love, ah! we love so blindly, BABY BELL. HAVE you not heard the poets tell The gates of heaven were left ajar: Hung in the glistening depths of even, Its bridges, running to and fro, So light they did not bend the bells They fell like dew upon the flowers: Into this world of ours. She came, and brought delicious May. And o'er the porch the trembling vine Up from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, Oh, earth was full of singing-birds Philip, my king! The spirit that there lies sleeping now fairer Let me behold thee in future years! A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, Thou, too, must tread, as we trod, a way Will snatch at thy crown. But march Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout, DINAH MULOCK CRAIK. And opening spring-tide flowers, Came to this world of ours! So full of meaning, pure and bright Was love so lovely born · For love of Him who smote our lives, And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said, Dear Christ!-our hearts bent down Like violets after rain. And now the orchards, which were white The grapes hung purpling in the grange; Her lissome form more perfect grew, And in her features we could trace, In soften'd curves, her mother's face. Her angel-nature ripen'd too: We thought her lovely when she came, But she was holy, saintly now :— Around her pale angelic brow We saw a slender ring of flame! God's hand had taken away the seal That held the portals of her speech; And oft she said a few strange words Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. She never was a child to us, We never held her being's key; We could not teach her holy things: She was Christ's self in purity. It came upon us by degrees, We shudder'd with unlanguaged pain, Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell! At last he came, the messenger, The messenger from unseen lands: And what did dainty Baby Bell? She only cross'd her little hands, She only look'd more meek and fair! Out of this world of ours! THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. WHERE DID YOU COME FROM? WHERE did you come from, baby dear? Some of the starry spikes left in. Where did you get that little tear? What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by. What makes your cheek like a white rose? warm I saw something better than any one knows. Whence that three-corner'd smile of bliss? Where did you get this pearly ear? Where did you get those arms and hands? things? From the same box as the cherubs' wings. How did they all come just to be you? GEORGE MACDONALD. "SWEET AND LOW." SWEET and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, But smile not, as thy father did, Come from the dying moon, and blow, To cozen maids: nay, God forbid! Blow him again to me, Bot yett I feire, thou wilt gae neire While my little one, while my pretty one, Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. ALFRED TENNYSON. LULLABY. GOLDEN slumbers kiss your eyes, Care is heavy, therefore sleep you; Rock them, rock them, lullaby. THOMAS DEKKER. LADY ANNE BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. Balow, my babe, ly still and sleipe, Whan he began to court my luve, Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, Ly stil, my darling, sleipe a while, Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. I cannae chuse, but ever will Be luving to thy father stil: Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, My luve with him doth stil abyde: In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae, Mine hart can neire depart him frae. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. But doe not, doe not, pretty mine, To faynings fals thine hart incline; Be loyal to thy luver trew, And nevir change her for a new: If gude or faire, of hir have care, For women's banning's wondrous sair. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine, My babe and I'll together live, He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve: My babe and I right saft will ly, And quite forgeit man's cruelty. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, That evir kist a woman's mouth! I wish all maides be warn'd by mee Nevir to trust man's curtesy ; For if we doe bot chance to bow, They'll use us than they care not how. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. CRADLE SONG. [From the German.] SLEEP, baby, sleep! Thy father's watching the sheep, Sleep, baby, sleep! The large stars are the sheep. The little stars are the lambs, I guess, I he bright moon is the shepherdess. Sleep, baby, sleep! And cry not like a sheep. Else the sheep-dog will bark and whine, And bite this naughty child of mine. Sleep, baby, sleep! Sleep, baby, sleep! Thy Saviour loves His sheep; He is the Lamb of God on high Who for our sakes came down to die. Sleep, baby, sleep! Sleep, baby, sleep! A way to tend the sheep, Away, thou sheep-dog fierce and wild, And do not harm my sleeping child! Sleep, baby, sleep! ELIZABETH PRENTISS THE ANGELS' WHISPER. A BABY was sleeping; Its mother was weeping; For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; And the tempest was swelling And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh come back to me!" Her beads while she number'd, The baby still slumber'd, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee: "Oh, blest be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee! And while they are keeping Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! They'd watch o'er thy father! For I know that the angels are whispering to thee." The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, THE CHILD AND THE WATCHER. SLEEP on, baby on the floor, One cheek, push'd out by the hand, Heavy laid for pleasure; All that may undo you? I smile too; for patience mild Sweet is the reposing. And God knows, who sees us twain, Child at childish leisure, I am all as tired of pain As you are of pleasure. Clasp your playthings sleeping. Differing in this, that I, Sleeping, must be colder, |