But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length
One, 'midst the forests of the West By a dark stream is laid
Into wail such as this--and we sit on for- The Indian knows his place of rest
When the man-child is born.
Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the East,
And one of them shot in the West by the
Both both my boys! If in keeping the feast
You want a great song for your Italy free,
Let none look at me!
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. THEY grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee ;— Their graves are sever'd, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow; She had each folded flower in sightWhere are those dreamers now?
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one- He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble slain :
He wrapt his colors round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain. And one-o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd; She faded midst Italian flowers- The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who play'd Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee!
They that with smiles lit up the hall.
And cheer'd with song the hearth!— Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And naught beyond, O earth!
FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.
We thought her lovely when she came, But she was holy, sainth Chound her fate angelic know
slender ring of flame! Thomas Baily Aldrich,
CHEEKS as soft as July peaches; Lips whose velvet scarlet teaches Poppies paleness; round large eyes Ever great with new surprise; Minutes filled with shadeless gladness; Minutes just as brimm'd with sadness; Happy smiles and wailing cries, Crows and laughs and tearful eyes, Lights and shadows, swifter born Than on windswept autumn corn; Ever some new tiny notion, Making every limb all motion, Catchings up of legs and arms, Throwings back and small alarms, Clutching fingers-straightening jerks, Twining feet whose each toe works, Kickings up and straining risings, Mother's ever-new surprisings; Hands all wants, and looks all wonder At all things the heavens under; Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings That have more of love than lovings; Mischiefs done with such a winning Archness that we prize such sinning; Breakings dire of plates and glasses, Graspings small at all that passes; Pullings off of all that's able To be caught from tray or table; Silences-small meditations
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations-- Breaking into wisest speeches In a tongue that nothing teaches, All the thoughts of whose possessing Must be woo'd to light by guessing; Slumbers-such sweet angel-seemings That we'd ever have such dreamings, Till from sleep we see thee breaking,
And we'd always have thee waking; Wealth for which we know no measure, Pleasure high above all pleasure, Gladness brimming over gladness, Joy in care-delight in sadness, Loveliness beyond completeness, Sweetness distancing all sweetness, Beauty all that beauty may be, That's May Bennett; that's my baby.
BABY LOUISE.
I'm in love with you, Baby Louise!
With your silken hair and your soft blue
And the dreamy wisdom that in them lies, And the faint, sweet smile you brought from the skies;
God's sunshine, Baby Louise!
When you fold your hands, Baby Louise-
Your hands, like a fairy's, so tiny and fair- With a pretty, innocent, saint-like air, Are you trying to think of some angel- taught prayer
You learned above, Baby Louise?
I'm in love with you, Baby Louise! Why! you never raise your beautiful head! Some day, little one, your cheek will grow red
With a flush of delight to hear the words said,
"I love you," Baby Louise.
Do you hear me, Baby Louise?
I have sung your praises for nearly an hour,
And your lashes keep drooping lower and lower,
And you've gone to sleep like a weary flower,
Ungrateful Baby Louise!
MARGARET EYTINGE.
"Who bears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty."
Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my king!
Round whom the enshadowing purple lies Of babyhood's royal dignities: Lay on my neck thy tiny hand,
With Love's invisible sceptre laden; I am thine Esther to command
Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden,
Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, Philip, my king!
When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, And, some gentle heart's bars undoing, Thou dost enter, love-crown'd, and there Sittest, love-glorified!-Rule kindly, Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair;
For we that love, ah! we love so blindly, Philip, my king!
How came the dainty Baby Bell HAVE you not heard the poets tell
Into this world of ours? The gates of heaven were left ajar: With folded hands and dreamy eyes, Wandering out of Paradise, She saw this planet, like a star,
Hung in the glistening depths of
Its bridges, running to and fro, O'er which the white-wing'd angels go, Bearing the holy dead to heaven. She touch'd a bridge of flowers,-those feet,
So light they did not bend the bells Of the celestial asphodels,
They fell like dew upon the flowers: Then all the air grew strangely sweet! And thus came dainty Baby Bell
Into this world of ours.
She came, and brought delicious May.
The swallows built beneath the eaves; Like sunlight, in and out the leaves The robins went the livelong day; The lily swung its noiseless bell;
And o'er the porch the trembling vine Seem'd bursting with its veins of wine. How sweetly, softly, twilight fell!
Up from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, Oh, earth was full of singing-birds
The spirit that there lies sleeping now May rise like a giant, and make men bow As to one heaven-chosen amongst his peers. My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer
Let me behold thee in future years! Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my king—
A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, Philip, my king!
Thou, too, must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray; Rebels within thee and foes without
Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious,
Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout, As thou sitt'st at the feet of God vic- torious, "Philip, the king!"
And opening spring-tide flowers, When the dainty Baby Bell
Came to this world of ours! Oh, Baby, dainty Baby Bell, How fair she grew from day to day! What woman-nature fill'd her eyes, What poetry within them lay! Those deep and tender twilight eyes,
So full of meaning, pure and bright As if she yet stood in the light Of those oped gates of Paradise. And so we loved her more and more: Ah, never in our hearts before
Was love so lovely born: We felt we had a link between This real world and that unseen- The land beyond the morn; And for the love of those dear eyes, For love of her whom God led forth, (The mother's being ceased on earth When Baby came from Paradise),—
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