The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 4 : We still maun luve the Giver mair, An' see Him in the given; An' sae she'

We still maun luve the Giver mair, An' see Him in the given; An' sae she'll lead us up to Him, Our babie straight frae Heaven.

Jeremiah Eames Rankin [1828-1904]

LITTLE HANDS

Soft little hands that stray and clutch, Like fern fronds curl and uncurl bold, While baby faces lie in such Close sleep as flowers at night that fold, What is it you would, clasp and hold, Wandering outstretched with wilful touch?

O fingers small of sh.e.l.l-tipped rose, How should you know you hold so much?

Two full hearts beating you inclose, Hopes, fears, prayers, longings, joys and woes,-- All yours to hold, O little hands!

More, more than wisdom understands And love, love only knows.

Laurence Binyon [1869-

BARTHOLOMEW

Bartholomew is very sweet, From sandy hair to rosy feet.

Bartholomew is six months old, And dearer far than pearls or gold.

Bartholomew has deep blue eyes, Round pieces dropped from out the skies.

Bartholomew is hugged and kissed: He loves a flower in either fist.

Bartholomew's my saucy son: No mother has a sweeter one!

Norman Gale [1862-

THE STORM-CHILD

My child came to me with the equinox, The wild wind blew him to my swinging door, With flakes of tawny foam from off the sh.o.r.e, And s.h.i.+vering spindrift whirled across the rocks.

Flung down the sky, the wheeling swallow-flocks Cried him a greeting, and the lordly woods, Waving lean arms of welcome one by one, Cast down their russet cloaks and golden hoods, And bid their dancing leaflets trip and run Before the tender feet of this my son.

Therefore the sea's swift fire is in his veins, And in his heart the glory of the sea; Therefore the storm-wind shall his comrade be, That strips the hills and sweeps the cowering plains.

October, shot with flas.h.i.+ng rays and rains, Inhabits all his pulses; he shall know The stress and splendor of the roaring gales, The creaking boughs shall croon him fairy tales, And the sea's kisses set his blood aglow, While in his ears the eternal bugles blow.

May Byron [1861-

"ON PARENT KNEES"

On parent knees, a naked new-born child, Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled: So live, that, sinking to thy life's last sleep, Calm thou may'st smile, while all around thee weep.

William Jones [1746-1794]

"PHILIP, MY KING"

"Who bears upon his baby brow the round and top of sovereignty."

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

Round whom the enshadowing purple 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 a queen-handmaiden, Philip, my king.

O 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. 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 among 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 Th.o.r.n.y and cruel and cold and gray: Rebels within thee, and foes without, Will s.n.a.t.c.h at thy crown. But march on, glorious, Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout, As thou sittest at the feet of G.o.d victorious, "Philip, the king!"

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]

THE KING OF THE CRADLE

Draw back the cradle curtains, Kate, While watch and ward you're keeping, Let's see the monarch in his state, And view him while he's sleeping.

He smiles and clasps his tiny hand, With sunbeams o'er him gleaming,-- A world of baby fairyland He visits while he's dreaming.

Monarch of pearly powder-puff, Asleep in nest so cosy, s.h.i.+elded from breath of breezes rough By curtains warm and rosy: He slumbers soundly in his cell, As weak as one decrepid, Though King of Coral, Lord of Bell, And Knight of Bath that's tepid.

Ah, lucky tyrant! Happy lot!

Fair watchers without number, Who sweetly sing beside his cot, And hush him off to slumber; White hands in wait to smooth so neat His pillow when its rumpled-- A couch of rose leaves soft and sweet, Not one of which is crumpled!

Will yonder dainty dimpled hand-- Size, nothing and a quarter-- E'er grasp a saber, lead a band To glory and to slaughter?

Or, may I ask, will those blue eyes-- In baby patois, "peepers"-- E'er in the House of Commons rise, And try to catch the Speaker's?

Will that smooth brow o'er Hansard frown, Confused by lore statistic?

Or will those lips e'er stir the town From pulpit ritualistic?

Will e'er that tiny Sybarite Become an author noted?

That little brain the world's delight, Its works by all men quoted?

Though rosy, dimpled, plump, and round Though fragile, soft, and tender, Sometimes, alas! it may be found The thread of life is slender!

A little shoe, a little glove-- Affection never waning-- The shattered idol of our love Is all that is remaining!

Then does one chance, in fancy, hear, Small feet in childish patter, Tread soft as they a grave draw near, And voices hush their chatter; 'Tis small and new; they pause in fear, Beneath the gray church tower, To consecrate it with a tear, And deck it with a flower.