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Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,
Philip, my King
A wreath, not of gold, but palm! One day,
Philip, my King !
Will snatch at thy crown; but go on, glorious
“ Philip, the King !”
Philip BOURKE MARSTON.1
Sang the lily and sang the rose, ,
“O joy, 0 joy of the summer tide!”
Dear little buds, in the leaves that hide!”
Sang the trees, as they rustled together : “O the joy of the summer weather!
Roses and lilies, how do you fare ?”
1 It was to Philip Bourke Marston that Miss Muloch's poem, “ Philip, my King,” was addressed in his infancy. In after life he met with many misfortunes, and entirely lost his eye-sight. He was frequently called “ the blind poet."
Sang the red rose, and sang the white: “Glad we are of the sun's large light,
And the songs of the birds that dart through the air.'
Lily, and rose, and tall green tree,
Thrilled by music and thrilled by wings,
Or the dreary dirge that a storm-wind sings !
Golden butterflies gleam in the sun,
And great bees come, with their sleepy tune,
And fall asleep in the heart of the noon.
A small white cloud in a sky of blue :
For a wind springs up and sings in the trees.
That were rocked to sleep by the gentle breeze.
Ah, roses and lilies ! Each delicate petal
This way and that way the tall trees sway:
And the flowers grow glad in the sun's warm ray.
Sing, my lilies, and sing, my roses,
But the trees are old; and I fancy they tell,
But that summer returns the trees know well.
THE BLIND BOY.
O, SAY, what is that thing called light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy ?
O tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wondrous things you see;
You say the sun shines bright;
Make either day or night ?
My day and night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play,
With me 'twere always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My peace of mind destroy ; While thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy!
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.
I REMEMBER, I remember
The house where I was born ;
Came peeping in at morn;
Nor brought too long a day;
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
Those flowers made of light!
And where my brother set
The tree is living yet!
Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
The fever of my brow!
The fir-trees dark and high ;
Were close against the sky.
But now ’tis little joy
Than when I was a boy.
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it;
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;
For often at noon when returned from the field,