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Philip, my King. Who bears upon his baby brow the round and top of sovereignty.”

OOK 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,
Philip, my King !

Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing,
Philip, my King !
When those beautiful lips are suing,
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing,
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there
Sittest love-glorified l—Rule kindly,
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair;
For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,
Philip, my King !

I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow,
Philip, my King !
Ay, there lies the spirit, all sleeping now,
That may rise like a giant, and make men bow
As to one God-throned amidst his peers.
My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer
Let me behold thee in coming years l
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,
Philip, my King—

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 171

A wreath, not of gold, but palm 1 One day,
Philip, my King !
Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way
Thorny, and bitter, and cold, and gray;
Rebels within thee, and foes without
Will snatch at thy crown. But go on, glorious
Martyr, yet monarch 1 till angels shout,
As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious,
“Philip, the King!”
DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

The Children’s Hour.

ETWEEN the dark and the daylight, 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 patter of little feet;

The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper and then a silence,
Yet I know by their merry eyes

They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

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,
Their arms about me entwine,

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen,
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine.

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,

Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all?

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,

But put you into the dungeon,
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever—
Yes, forever and a day;
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away.
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

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E came—a beauteous vision—
Then vanished from my sight;

His wing one moment cleaving

The blackness of my night; My glad ear caught its rustle,

Then sweeping by, he stole The dew-drop that his coming

Had cherished in my soul. * ANGEL CHARLIE. 173

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,
His form was sure to glide,
And in the lone night-watches
'Twas ever by my side.

He came; but as the blossom
Its petals closes up,
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,
To be the Saviour's guest.

My boy—ah, me ! the sweetness,
The anguish of that word l—
My boy, when in strange night-dreams
My slumbering soul is stirred;
When music floats around me,
When soft lips touch my brow,
And whisper gentle greetings,
Oh, tell me, is it thou?

I know by one sweet token
My Charlie is not dead ;
One golden clue he left me
As on his track he sped;
Were he some gem or blossom,
But fashioned for to-day,
My love would slowly perish
With his dissolving clay.

Oh, by this deathless yearning,
Which is not idly given;
By the delicious nearness
My spirit feels to heaven;
By dreams that throng my night-sleep,
By visions of the day,
By whispers when I'm erring,
By promptings when I pray;-

I know this life so cherished,
Which sprang beneath my heart,
Which formed of my own being
So beautiful a part;
This precious, winsome creature,
My unfledged, voiceless dove,
Lifts now a seraph's pinion,
And warbles lays of love.

Oh, I would not recall thee,
My glorious angel-boy!
Thou needest not my bosom,
Rare bird of light and joy!
Here dash I down the tear-drops
Still gathering in my eyes;
Blest—oh how blest l—in adding
A seraph to the skies 1
EMILY C. JUDSON.

Song of Pitcairn's Island.

OME, take our boy, and we will go Before our cabin door; The winds shall bring us, as they blow, The murmurs of the shore;

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