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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-hand-maiden,

Philip, my king!

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 !

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 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;

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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 Muloch CRAIK,

BABY.

WHERE did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the everywhere into here.

Where did you get those eyes so blue ?
Out of the sky as I came through.

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin ? Some of the starry spikes left in.

Where did you get that little tear ?
I found it waiting, when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose ? I saw something better than any one knows.

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ?
Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

Where did you get this pearly ear?
God spoke and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands?
Love made itself into bonds and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? From the same box as the cherubs' wings.

How did they all just come to be you?
God thought about me, and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, you dear ?
God thought about you, and so I am here.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

CRADLE SONG.

What is the little one thinking about ?
Very wonderful things, no doubt.

Unwritten history!

Unfathomed mystery!
Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks,
And 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

When 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,
Speckled 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 is hushed in sweet repose :

J. G. HOLLAND.

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