THE TOYS.

My little son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,
I struck him, and dismiss'd

With hard words and unkiss'd,

His mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,

But found him slumbering deep,

With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.

And I, with a moan,

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;
For, on the table drawn beside his head,

He had put, within his reach,

A box of counters, and a red-veined stone,

A piece of glass, abraded by the beach,

And six or seven shells,

A bottle with bluebells,

And two French copper coins, ranged there with care

ful art,

To comfort his sad heart.

So when that night I pray'd

To God, I wept, and said:

Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath,

Not vexing thee in death,

And thou rememberest of what toys

We made our joys,

How weakly understood

Thy great commanded good,

Then, fatherly no less

Than I, whom thou hast molded from the clay,

Thou'lt leave thy wrath and say,

"I will be sorry for their childishness."

-Coventry Patmore.

FORBEARANCE.

Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?
Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk?
At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse?
Unarmed faced danger with a heart of trust?
And loved so well a high behavior,

In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained,
Nobility more nobly to repay?

O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson.

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON.

When love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair

And fettered to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air

Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round

With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses crown'd,
Our hearts with loyal flames;

When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free,

Fishes that tipple in the deep,

Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take

That for a hermitage.

If I have freedom in my love,

And in my soul am free,

Angels alone that soar above

Enjoy such liberty.

-Richard Lovelace.

PHILIP, MY KING:

Look at me with thine large brown eyes,
Philip, my king!

For round thee the purple shadow lies
Of babyhood's royal 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 thou goest a-wooing,
Philip, my king!

When those beautiful lips 'gin suing,
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing,
Thou dost enter, love crowned, and, there
Sittest love glorified! 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!

The spirit that there lies sleeping now
May rise like a giant and make men bow

As to one heaven chosen among his peers.

My Saul, than thy brethren higher 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.

Rebels within thee and foes without

Will snatch at thy crown, but march, glorious,

Martyr, yet monarch, till angels shout,

As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious,

"Philip, my king!"

-Dinah Muloch Craik.

RECESSIONAL.

God of our fathers, known of old-
Lord of our far-flung battle line-
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine-

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies-
The captains and the kings depart-
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away—

On dune and headland sinks the fire

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!

Judge of the nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-
Such boasting as the Gentiles use

Or lesser breeds without the law

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget-lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard-
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard—
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord.

-Rudyard Kipling.

THE APOLOGY.

Think me not unkind and rude,

That I walk alone in grove and glen;

I go to the God of the wood

To fetch his word to men.

Tax not my sloth that I

Fold my arms beside the brook; Each cloud that floated in the sky Writes a letter in my book.

Chide me not, laborious band,

For the idle flowers I brought.

Every aster in my hand

Goes home loaded with a thought.

There was never mystery

But 'tis figured in the flowers:

Was never sacred history

But birds tell it in the bowers.

One harvest from thy field

Homeward brought the oxen strong;

A second crop thy acres yield

Which I gather in a song.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson.