Oh the rapture, sweet, unbroken, Of the soul who wrote that prayer! Children's myriad voices floating Up to heaven record it there.
If, of all that has been written, I could choose what might be mine, It should be that child's petition, Rising to the throne divine.
THE fire upon the hearth is low,
And there is stillness everywhere; Like troubled spirits, here and there The firelight shadows fluttering go. And as the shadows round me creep,
A childish treble breaks the gloom, And softly from a further room Comes: "Now I lay me down to sleep."
And, somehow, with that little prayer And that sweet treble in my ears, My thought goes back to distant years, And lingers with a dear one there; And as I hear the child's amen,
My mother's faith comes back to me, Crouched at her side I seem to be, And mother holds my hands again.
Oh for an hour in that dear place! Oh for the peace of that dear time! Oh for that childish trust sublime! Oh, for a glimpse of mother's face! Yet, as the shadows round me creep, I do not seem to be alone, Sweet magic of that treble tone And "Now I lay me down to sleep!”
Is the house turned topsy-turvy? Does it ring from street to roof? Will the racket still continue, Spite of all your mild reproof? Are you often in a flutter?
Are you sometimes thrilled with joy?
Then I have my grave suspicions
That you have at home that Boy.
Are your walls and tables hammered? Are your nerves and ink upset? Have two eyes, so bright and roguish, Made you every care forget? Have your garden beds a prowler Who delights but to destroy? These are well-known indications That you have at home - that Boy.
Have you seen him playing circus With his head upon the mat, And his heels in mid-air twinkling — For his audience, the cat? Do you ever stop to listen,
When his merry pranks annoy,— Listen to a voice that whispers, You were once just like ·
Have you heard of broken windows, And with nobody to blame? Have you seen a trousered urchin Quite unconscious of the same?
Do you love a teasing mixture Of perplexity and joy?
You may have a dozen daughters, But I know you've got — that Boy.
THE clock strikes seven in the hall, The curfew of the children's day, That calls each little pattering foot From dance and song and livelong play; Their day, that in our wider light Floats like a silver day-moon white, Nor in our darkness sinks to rest, But sinks within a golden west.
Ah, tender hour that sends a drift
Óf children's kisses through the house, And cuckoo-notes of sweet "Good-night," And thoughts of home and heaven arouse ; And a soft stir of sense and heart,
As when the bee and blossom part; And little feet that patter slower, Like the last droppings of the shower.
And in the children's rooms aloft What blossom shapes do gayly slip Their dainty sheaths, and rosy run From clasping hand and kissing lip. A naked sweetness to the eye Blossom and babe and butterfly In witching one so dear a sight! An ecstasy of life and light.
And, ah, what lovely witcheries
Bestrew the floor,· -an empty sock, By vanished dance and song left loose As dead bird's throat; a tiny smock That, sure, upon some meadow grew, And drank the heaven-sweet rains; a shoe Scarce bigger than an acorn-cup; Frocks that seem flowery meads cut up.
Then lily-drest in angel-white
To mother's knee they trooping come; The soft palms fold like kissing shells, And they and we go shining home, Their bright heads bowed and worshipping As though some glory of the spring, Some daffodil that mocks the day, Should fold his golden palms and pray.
And gates of Paradise swing wide
A moment's space in soft accord, And those dread angels, Life and Death, A moment veil the flaming sword,
As o'er the weary world forlorn From Eden's secret heart is borne That breath of Paradise most fair,
Which mothers call the "children's prayer."
Ah, deep, pathetic mystery!
The world's great woe unconscious hung, A rain-drop on a blossom's lip,
White innocence that woos our wrong,
And love divine that looks again, Unconscious of the cross and pain, From sweet child-eyes, and in that child Sad earth and heaven reconciled.
Then, kissed, on beds we lay them down, As fragrant-white as clover's sod; And all the upper floors grow hushed With children's sleep, and dews of God. And as our stars their beams do hide, The stars of twilight, opening wide, Take up the heavenly tale at even, And light us on to God and heaven
WE asked where the magic came from That made her so wondrous fair, As she stood with the sunlight touching Her gloss of golden hair.
And her blue eyes looked toward heaven As though they could see God there. "Hush!" said the child, "can't you hear it, The music that's everywhere?"
God help us! we could not hear it, Our hearts were heavy with pain; We heard men toiling and wrangling, We heard the whole world complain; And the sound of a mocking laughter We heard again and again,
But we lost all faith in the music,
We had listened so long in vain.
"Can't you hear it?" the young child whispered, And sadly we answered, "No.
We might have fancied we heard it
In the days of long ago;
But the music is all a delusion, Our reason has told us so,
And you will forget that you heard it, When you know the sound of woe."
Then one spoke out from among us Who had nothing left to fear; Who had given his life for others, And been repaid with a sneer. And his face was lit with a glory,
And his voice was calm and clear; And he said, "I can hear the music Which the little children hear."
IN the soft falling twilight Of a weary, weary day,
With a quiet step I entered
Where the children were at play; I was brooding o'er some trouble Which had met me unawares, When a little voice came ringing: "Me is creeping up the stairs."
Ah, it touched the tenderest heart-strings With a breath and force divine, And such melodies awakened, As no wording can define. And I turned to see our darling, - All forgetful of my cares, When I saw the little creature Slowly creeping up the stairs.
Step by step she slowly clambered On her little hands and knees, Keeping up a constant chatter, Like a magpie in the trees, Till at last she reached the topmost, When, o'er all her world's affairs, She, delighted, stood a victor
After creeping up the stairs.
Fainting heart, behold an image Of man's brief and struggling life, Whose best prizes must be captured With a noble, earnest strife; Onward, upward, reaching ever, Bending to the weight of cares, Hoping, fearing, still expecting, We go creeping up the stairs.
On their steps may be no carpet, By their side may be no rail, Hands and knees may often pain us, And the heart may almost fail;
Still above there is the glory Which no sinfulness impairs, With its rest and joy forever, After creeping up the stairs.
GOLDENHAIR climbed upon grandpapa's knee ! Dear little Goldenhair! tired was she All the day busy as busy could be!
Up in the morning as soon as 't was light Up with the birds and butterflies bright, Skipping about till the coming of night.
Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head; "What has my darling been doing?" he said, "Since she rose, with the sun, from her bed?"
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