No song, love knows, May praise the head Your curtain shows. Ere sleep has fled, The whole child glows One sweet live red Rose. FIRST FOOTSTEPS. A LITTLE way, more soft and sweet Than fields aflower with May, A babe’s feet, venturing, scarce complete A little way. Eyes full of dawning day Look up for mother’s eyes to meet, Too blithe for song to say. Glad as the golden spring to greet Its first live leaflet’s play, Love, laughing, leads the little feet A little way. A NINTH BIRTHDAY. FEBRUARY 4, 1883. I. THREE times thrice hath winter’s rough white wing Crossed and curdled wells and streams with ice Since his birth whose praises love would sing Three times thrice. Earth nor sea bears flower nor pearl of price Fit to crown the forehead of my king, Honey meet to please him, balm, nor spice. Love can think of nought but love to bring Fit to serve or do him sacrifice Ere his eyes have looked upon the spring Three times thrice. II. Three times thrice the world has fallen on slumber, Shone and waned and withered in a trice, Frost has fettered Thames and Tyne and Humber Three times thrice, Fogs have swoln too thick for steel to slice, Cloud and mud have soiled with grime and umber Earth and heaven, defaced as souls with vice, Winds have risen to wreck, snows fallen to cumber, Ships and chariots, trapped like rats or mice, Since my king first smiled, whose years now number Three times thrice. III. Three times thrice, in wine of song full-flowing, Pledge, my heart, the child whose eyes suffice, Once beheld, to set thy joy-bells going Three times thrice. Not the lands of palm and date and rice Glow more bright when summer leaves them glowing, Laugh more light when suns and winds entice. Noon and eve and midnight and cock-crowing, Child whose love makes life as paradise, Love should sound your praise with clarions blowing Three times thrice. NOT A CHILD. I. ‘NOT a child: I call myself a boy,’ Says my king, with accent stern yet mild, Now nine years have brought him change of joy; ‘Not a child.’ How could reason be so far beguiled, Err so far from sense’s safe employ, Stray so wide of truth, or run so wild? Seeing his face bent over book or toy, Child I called him, smiling: but he smiled Back, as one too high for vain annoy— Not a child. II. Not a child? alack the year! What should ail an undefiled Heart, that he would fain appear Not a child? Men, with years and memories piled Each on other, far and near, Fain again would so be styled: Fain would cast off hope and fear, Rest, forget, be reconciled: Why would you so fain be, dear, Not a child? III.