PHILIP, MY KING.

"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 commiand

Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden, Philip, my king!

O, 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-crowned, and there
Sittest love-glorified! - Rule kindly,
Tenderly over thy kingdom fair;

For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,
Philip, my king!

Up from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow,
Philip, my king!

The spirit that there lies sleeping now
May rise like a giant, and make men bow
As to one Heaven-chosen among 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 victorious,

"Philip, the king!"

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.

Who can tell what a baby thinks?
Who can follow the gossamer links

By which the manikin feels his way Out from the shore of the great unknown, Blind, and wailing, and alone,

Into the light of day?

Out from the shore of the unknown sea, Tossing in pitiful agony;

Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,
Specked with the barks of little souls,
Barks that were launched on the other side,
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide!
What does he think of his mother's eyes?
What does he think of his mother's hair?

What of the cradle-roof, that flies
Forward and backward through the air?
What does he think of his mother's breast,
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,
Seeking it ever with fresh delight,

Cup of his life, and couch of his rest? What does he think when her quick embrace Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell, With a tenderness she can never tell, Though she murmur the words

Of all the birds, —

Words she has learned to murmur well? Now he thinks he'll go to sleep!

I can see the shadow creep

I HAVE got a new-born sister;
I was nigh the first that kissed her.
When the nursing-woman brought her
To papa, his infant daughter,
How papa's dear eyes did glisten!-
She will shortly be to christen;
And papa has made the offer,

I shall have the naming of her.

Now I wonder what would please her, —
Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa?

Ann and Mary, they 're too common ;
Joan's too formal for a woman;
Jane's a prettier name beside;
But we had a Jane that died.
They would say, if 't was Rebecca,
That she was a little Quaker.
Edith's pretty, but that looks
Better in old English books;
Ellen's left off long ago;
Blanche is out of fashion now.
None that I have named as yet
Are so good as Margaret.
Emily is neat and fine;

What do you think of Caroline?
How I'm puzzled and perplexed
What to choose or think of next!

I am in a little fever

Lest the name that I should give her
Should disgrace her or defame her;
I will leave papa to name her.

BABY MAY.

MARY LAMB.

CHEEKS as soft as July peaches;
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches
Poppies paleness; round large eyes
Ever great with new surprise;
Minutes filled with shadeless gladness;
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness;
Happy smiles and wailing cries;
Crows, and laughs, and tearful eyes;
Lights and shadows, swifter born
Than on wind-swept 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 wooed 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.

WILLIAM COX BENNETT.

A CRADLE HYMN.

ABBREVIATED FROM THE ORIGINAL.

HUSH! my dear, lie still, and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed! Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide ; All without thy care or payment,

All thy wants are well supplied.

How much better thou 'rt attended

Than the Son of God could be, When from heaven he descended, And became a child like thee.

Soft and easy is thy cradle :
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay:
When his birthplace was a stable,
And his softest bed was hay.