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THE CHILDREN'S HOUR

BETWEEN 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!

The Desire

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

But put you down 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.

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

LAUS INFANTIUM

In praise of little children I will say

God first made man, then found a better way
For woman, but his third way was the best.

Of all created things, the loveliest

And most divine are children. Nothing here
Can be to us more gracious or more dear.

And though, when God saw all his works were good,
There was no rosy flower of babyhood,

'Twas said of children in a later day

That none could enter Heaven save such as they.

The earth, which feels the flowering of a thorn,
Was glad, O little child, when you were born;
The earth, which thrills when skylarks scale the blue,
Soared up itself to God's own Heaven in you;
And Heaven, which loves to lean down and to glass
Its beauty in each dewdrop on the grass,-

Heaven laughed to find your face so pure and fair,
And left, O little child, its reflex there.

William Canton [1845

THE DESIRE

GIVE me no mansions ivory white

Nor palaces of pearl and gold;

Give me a child for all delight,

Just four years old.

Give me no wings of rosy shine
Nor snowy raiment, fold on fold,
Give me a little boy all mine,
Just four years old.

Give me no gold and starry crown
Nor harps, nor palm branches unrolled;
Give me a nestling head of brown,
Just four years old.

Give me a cheek that's like the peach,
Two arms to clasp me from the cold;
And all my heaven's within my reach,
Just four years old.

Dear God, You give me from Your skies
A little paradise to hold,

As Mary once her Paradise,

Just four years old.

Katherine Tynan [1861

A CHILD'S LAUGHTER

ALL the bells of heaven may ring,
All the birds of heaven may sing,
All the wells on earth may spring,
All the winds on earth may bring
All sweet sounds together;
Sweeter far then all things heard,
Hand of harper, tone of bird,
Sound of woods at sundawn stirred,
Welling water's winsome word,

Wind in warm, wan weather.

One thing yet there is, that none,
Hearing ere its chime be done,
Knows not well the sweetest one
Heard of man beneath the sun,
Hoped in heaven hereafter;

Soft and strong and loud and light,

Seven Years Old

255

Very sound of very light,

Heard from morning's rosiest height,
When the soul of all delight,

Fills a child's clear laughter.

Golden bells of welcome rolled
Never forth such note, nor told
Hours so blithe in tones so bold,
As the radiant mouth of gold
Here that rings forth heaven.
If the golden-crested wren
Were a nightingale why, then
Something seen and heard of men
Might be half as sweet as when

Laughs a child of seven.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

SEVEN YEARS OLD

SEVEN white roses on one tree,

Seven white loaves of blameless leaven,

Seven white sails on one soft sea,

Seven white swans on one lake's lea,
Seven white flowerlike stars in Heaven,
All are types unmeet to be

For a birthday's crown of seven.

Not the radiance of the roses,

Not the blessing of the bread,

Not the breeze that ere day grows is
Fresh for sails and swans, and closes
Wings above the sun's grave spread
When the starshine on the snows is
Sweet as sleep on sorrow shed.

Nothing sweeter, nothing best,
Holds so good and sweet a treasure
As the love wherewith once blest

Joy grows holy, grief takes rest,
Life, half tired with hours to measure,
Fills his eyes and lips and breast

With most light and breath of pleasure;

As the rapture unpolluted,

As the passion undefiled,

By whose force all pains heart-rooted
Are transfigured and transmuted,
Recompensed and reconciled,
Through the imperial, undisputed,
Present godhead of a child.

Brown bright eyes and fair bright head,
Worth a worthier crown than this is,
Worth a worthier song instead,

Sweet grave wise round mouth, full fed
With the joy of love, whose bliss is
More than mortal wine and bread,
Lips whose words are sweet as kisses.

Little hands so glad of giving,

Little heart so glad of love,

Little soul so glad of living,

While the strong swift hours are weaving

Light with darkness woven above,

Time for mirth and time for grieving,

Plume of raven and plume of dove.

I can give you but a word
Warm with love therein for leaven,
But a song that falls unheard
Yet on ears of sense unstirred

Yet by song so far from Heaven,

Whence you came the brightest bird,

Seven years since, of seven times seven.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

CREEP AFORE YE GANG

CREEP awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang,
Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld Grannie's sang:
Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang,
Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang.

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