PHILIP, MY KING.

"Who bears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty."

CRADLE SONG.

FROM "BITTER-SWEET."

WHAT is the little one thinking about? Very wonderful things, no doubt;

Unwritten history!

Unfathomed mystery !

Yet he chuckles, and crows, and nods, and winks,
As if his head were as full of kinks
And curious riddles as any sphinx!
Warped by colic, and wet by tears,
Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears,
Our little nephew will lose two years;
And he'll never know

Where the summers go;

He need not laugh, for he'll find it so.

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

Over his eyes in soft eclipse, Over his brow and over his lips, Out to his little finger-tips! Softly sinking, down he goes ! Down he goes! down he goes !

See! he's hushed in sweet repose.

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.

CHOOSING A NAME.

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.

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,
Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,

"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

Then their whiskers grow.

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!
And say thou wouldst rather
They'd watch o'er thy father!

"I love you," Baby Louise.

Do you hear me, Baby Louise ?

I have sung your praises for nearly an hour,

thee."

The dawn of the morning Saw Derinot returning,

And-you've gone to sleep, like a weary flower,

Ungrateful Baby Louise!

And closely caressing
Her child with a blessing,

LULLABY.

FROM "THE PRINCESS."

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,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon ;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
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;
Its mother was weeping;

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea;

And the tempest was swelling
Round the fisherman's dwelling;

And she cried, "Dermot, darling, O come back

to me!"

Her beads while she numbered,
The baby still slumbered,

And smiled in her face as she bended her knee:

"O, blest be that warning,
My child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.

"And while they are keeping
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

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,