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Who can predict the future, Kate-- Your fondest aspiration!
Who knows the solemn laws of fate, That govern all creation?
Who knows what lot awaits your boy-- Of happiness or sorrow?
Sufficient for to-day is joy, Leave tears, Sweet, for to-morrow!
Joseph Ashby-Sterry [1838-1917]
THE FIRSTBORN
So fair, so dear, so warm upon my bosom, And in my hands the little rosy feet.
Sleep on, my little bird, my lamb, my blossom; Sleep on, sleep on, my sweet.
What is it G.o.d hath given me to cherish, This living, moving wonder which is mine-- Mine only? Leave it with me or I perish, Dear Lord of love divine.
Dear Lord, 'tis wonderful beyond all wonder, This tender miracle vouchsafed to me, One with myself, yet just so far asunder That I myself may see.
Flesh of my flesh, and yet so subtly linking New selfs with old, all things that I have been With present joys beyond my former thinking And future things unseen.
There life began, and here it links with heaven, The golden chain of years scarce dipped adown From birth, ere once again a hold is given And nearer to G.o.d's Throne.
Seen, held in arms and clasped around so tightly,-- My love, my bird, I will not let thee go.
Yet soon the little rosy feet must lightly Go pattering to and fro.
Mine, Lord, all mine Thy gift and loving token.
Mine--yes or no, unseen its soul divine?
Mine by the chain of love with links unbroken, Dear Saviour, Thine and mine.
John Arthur Goodchild [1851-
NO BABY IN THE HOUSE
No baby in the house, I know, 'Tis far too nice and clean.
No toys, by careless fingers strewn, Upon the floors are seen.
No finger-marks are on the panes, No scratches on the chairs; No wooden men setup in rows, Or marshaled off in pairs; No little stockings to be darned, All ragged at the toes; No pile of mending to be done, Made up of baby-clothes; No little troubles to be soothed; No little hands to fold; No grimy fingers to be washed; No stories to be told; No tender kisses to be given; No nicknames, "Dove" and "Mouse"; No merry frolics after tea,-- No baby in the house!
Clara Dolliver [18--
OUR WEE WHITE ROSE From "The Mother's Idol Broken"
All in our marriage garden Grew, smiling up to G.o.d, A bonnier flower than ever Sucked the green warmth of the sod; O, beautiful unfathomably Its little life unfurled; And crown of all things was our wee White Rose of all the world.
From out a balmy bosom Our bud of beauty grew; It fed on smiles for suns.h.i.+ne, On tears for daintier dew: Aye nestling warm and tenderly, Our leaves of love were curled So close and close about our wee White Rose of all the world.
With mystical faint fragrance Our house of life she filled; Revealed each hour some fairy tower Where winged hopes might build!
We saw--though none like us might see-- Such precious promise pearled Upon the petals of our wee White Rose of all the world.
But evermore the halo Of angel-light increased, Like the mystery of moonlight That folds some fairy feast.
Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently Our darling bud uncurled, And dropped in the grave--G.o.d's lap--our wee White Rose of all the world.
Our Rose was but in blossom, Our life was but in spring, When down the solemn midnight We heard the spirits sing, "Another bud of infancy With holy dews impearled!"
And in their hands they bore our wee White Rose of all the world.
You scarce could think so small a thing Could leave a loss so large; Her little light such shadow fling From dawn to sunset's marge.
In other springs our life may be In bannered bloom unfurled, But never, never match our wee White Rose of all the world.
Gerald Ma.s.sey [1828-1907]
INTO THE WORLD AND OUT
Into the world he looked with sweet surprise; The children laughed so when they saw his eyes.
Into the world a rosy hand in doubt He reached--a pale hand took one rosebud out.
"And that was all--quite all!" No, surely! But The children cried so when his eyes were shut.
Sarah M. B. Piatt [1836-1919]
"BABY SLEEPS"
She is not dead, but sleepeth.--Luke viii. 52.
The baby wept; The mother took it from the nurse's arms, And hushed its fears, and soothed its vain alarms, And baby slept.
Again it weeps, And G.o.d doth take it from the mother's arms, From present griefs, and future unknown harms, And baby sleeps.
Samuel Hinds [1793-1872]
BABY BELL
I
Have you not heard the poets tell How came the dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours?
