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.
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.
And now he smiles, as if to say,
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 Lousia?
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.
ARRAYED-a half-angelic sight- In vests of pure baptismal white, The mother to the Font doth bring The little helpless, nameless thing With hushes soft and mild caressing, At once to get a name and blessing. Close by the babe the priest doth stand, The cleansing water at his hand Which must assoil the soul within From every stain of Adam's sin.
The infant eyes the mystic scenes,
Nor knows what all this wonder means;
"I am a Christian made this day; Now frighted clings to nurse's hold, Shrinking from the water cold, Whose virtues, rightly understood, Are, as Bethesda's waters, good.
Strange words-The World, The Flesh, The Devil-
Poor babe, what can it know of evil? But we must silently adore
Mysterious truths, and not explore. Enough for him, in after-times,
When he shall read these artless rhymes, If, looking back upon this day With quiet conscience, he can say, "I have in part redeemed the pledge Of my baptismal privilege;
And more and more will strive to flee All which my sponsors kind did then re nounce for me."
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!
« PreviousContinue » |