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! For round thee the purple shadow lies Of babyhood's regal dignities. Lay on my neck thy tiny hand With love's invisible scepter laden; I am thine Esther, to command Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, When those beautiful lips are suing, For we that love, ah! we love so blindly, I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, Philip, my King! Ay, there lies the spirit, all sleeping now, As to one God-throned amidst his peers. My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer Let me behold thee in coming years! Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my King THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. A wreath, not of gold, but palm! Philip, my King! One day, Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way Will snatch at thy crown. But go on, glorious As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, 171 BET When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the children's hour. I hear in the chamber above me The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. I From my study I see in the lamplight, A whisper and then a silence,. Yet I know by their merry eyes A sudden rush from the stairway; A sudden raid from the hall; By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle-wall. They climb up into my turret, O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape they surround me, They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, I have you fast in my fortress, And there will I keep you forever- Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. Angel Charlie. HE came a beauteous vision— Then vanished from my sight; His wing one moment cleaving ANGEL CHARLIE. Oh, he had been my solace When grief my spirit swayed, And on his fragile being Had tender hopes been stayed; Where thought, where feeling lingered, He came; but as the blossom And hides them from the tempest Within its sheltering cup, So he his spirit gathered Back to his frightened breast, And passed from earth's grim threshold, My boy-ah, me! the sweetness, I know by one sweet token With his dissolving clay. 173 Oh, by this deathless yearning, My spirit feels to heaven; By dreams that throng my night-sleep, By visions of the day, By promptings when I pray ; I know this life so cherished, Which sprang beneath my heart, This precious, winsome creature, And warbles lays of love. Oh, I would not recall thee, Rare bird of light and joy! EMILY C. JUDSON. Song of Pitcairn's Island. C OME, take our boy, and we will go The winds shall bring us, as they blow, |