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Ex Ore Infantium

EX ORE INFANTIUM

LITTLE Jesus, wast Thou shy
Once, and just so small as I?
And what did it feel like to be
Out of Heaven, and just like me?
Didst Thou sometimes think of there,
And ask where all the angels were?
I should think that I would cry
For my house all made of sky;
I would look about the air,
And wonder where my angels were;
And at waking 'twould distress me—
Not an angel there to dress me!

Hadst Thou ever any toys,
Like us little girls and boys?

And didst Thou play in Heaven with all
The angels, that were not too tall,
With stars for marbles? Did the things
Play Can you see me? through their wings?
Didst Thou kneel at night to pray,
And didst Thou join Thy hands, this way?
And did they tire sometimes, being young,
And make the prayer seem very long?
And dost Thou like it best, that we
Should join our hands to pray to Thee?
I used to think, before I knew,
The prayer not said unless we do.
And did Thy Mother at the night
Kiss Thee, and fold the clothes in right?
And didst Thou feel quite good in bed,
Kissed, and sweet, and Thy prayers said?

Thou canst not have forgotten all
That it feels like to be small:

And Thou know'st I cannot pray
To Thee in my father's way—
When Thou wast so little, say,
Could'st Thou talk Thy Father's way?-
So, a little Child, come down

And hear a child's tongue like Thy own;

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Take me by the hand and walk,
And listen to my baby-talk.
To Thy Father show my prayer
(He will look, Thou art so fair),
And say: "O Father, I, Thy Son,
Bring the prayer of a little one."

And He will smile, that children's tongue
Has not changed since Thou wast young!
Francis Thompson (1859-1907]

OBITUARY

FINDING Francesca full of tears, I said,

"Tell me thy trouble." "Oh, my dog is dead! Murdered by poison!--no one knows for what!

Was ever dog born capable of that?"

"Child,"-I began to say, but checked my thought,— "A better dog can easily be bought.”

For no-what animal could him replace?

Those loving eyes! That fond, confiding face!

Those dear, dumb touches! Therefore I was dumb. From word of mine could any comfort come?

A bitter sorrow 'tis to lose a brute

Friend, dog or horse, for grief must then be mute,—
So many smile to see the rivers shed

Of tears for one poor, speechless creature dead.
When parents die there's many a word to say—
Kind words, consoling-one can always pray;
When children die 'tis natural to tell
Their mother, "Certainly, with them 'tis well!"
But for a dog, 'twas all the life he had,
Since death is end of dogs, or good or bad.
This was his world; he was contented here;
Imagined nothing better, naught more dear,

Than his young mistress; sought no brighter sphere;
Having no sin, asked not to be forgiven;

Ne'er guessed at God nor ever dreamed of heaven.

Now he has passed away, so much of love

Goes from our life, without one hope above!

When a dog dies there's nothing to be said
But-kiss me, darling!-dear old Smiler's dead.

Thomas William Parsons [1819-1892|

The Child's Heritage

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THE CHILD'S HERITAGE

Он, there are those, a sordid clan,
With pride in gaud and faith in gold,
Who prize the sacred soul of man

For what his hands have sold.

And these shall deem thee humbly bred:
They shall not hear, they shall not see
The kings among the lordly dead
Who walk and talk with thee!

A tattered cloak may be thy dole,
And thine the roof that Jesus had:
The broidered garment of the soul
Shall keep thee purple-clad!

The blood of men hath dyed its brede,
And it was wrought by holy seers
With sombre dream and golden deed,
And pearled with women's tears.

With Eld thy chain of days is one:
The seas are still Homeric seas;
Thy skies shall glow with Pindar's sun,
The stars of Socrates!

Unaged the ancient tide shall surge,

The old Spring burn along the bough: For thee, the new and old converge

In one eternal Now!

I give thy feet the hopeful sod,

Thy mouth, the priceless boon of breath; The glory of the search for God

Be thine in life and death!

Unto thy flesh, the soothing dust;
Thy soul, the gift of being free:
The torch my fathers gave in trust,
Thy father gives to thee!

John G. Neihardt [1881

A GIRL OF POMPEII

A PUBLIC haunt they found her in:
She lay asleep, a lovely child;
The only thing left undefiled
Where all things else bore taint of sin.

Her supple outlines fixed in clay
The universal law suspend,

And turn Time's chariot back, and blend
A thousand years with yesterday.

A sinless touch, austere yet warm,
Around her girlish figure pressed,

Caught the sweet imprint of her breast,
And held her, surely clasped, from harm.

Truer than work of sculptor's art

Comes this dear maid of long ago,
Sheltered from woeful chance, to show

A spirit's lovely counterpart,

And bid mistrustful men be sure

That form shall fate of flesh escape,

And, quit of carth's corruptions, shape

Itself, imperishably pure.

Edward Sandford Martin [1856

ON THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED

OF PLAY"

TIRED of play! Tired of play!

What hast thou done this live-long day!

The bird is silent and so is the bee,

The shadow is creeping up steeple and tree;

The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves,

And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves;

Twilight gathers, and day is done,-

How hast thou spent it, restless one?

Playing! And what hast thou done beside

To tell thy mother at eventide?

The Reverie of Poor Susan

What promise of morn is left unbroken?
What kind word to thy playmate spoken?
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?
How with thy faults has duty striven?
What hast thou learned by field and hill,
By greenwood path and by singing rill?

There will come an eve to a longer day
That will find thee tired,--but not with play!
And thou wilt learn, as thou learnest now,
With wearied limbs and aching brow,
And wish the shadows would faster creep
And long to go to thy quiet sleep.

Well will it be for thee then if thou
Art as free from sin and shame as now!
Well for thee if thy tongue can tell

A tale like this, of a day spent well!

If thine open hand hath relieved distress,
And thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness-
If thou hast forgiven the sore offence
And humbled thy heart with penitence;

If Nature's voices have spoken to thee
With her holy meanings, eloquently—
If every creature hath won thy love,

From the creeping worm to the brooding dove-
If never a sad, low-spoken word

Hath plead with thy human heart unheard-
Then, when the night steals on, as now

It will bring relief to thine aching brow,

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And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest,
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.
Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard

In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

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