"Tell me, my little golden-head, If Santa Claus should come to-night, What shall he bring my baby bright,-- What treasure for my boy?" I said. And then he named this little toy, While in his round and mournful eyes There came a look of sweet surprise, That spake his quiet, trustful joy. And as he lisped his evening prayer He asked the boon with childish grace; Then, toddling to the chimney-place, He hung this little stocking there. That night, while lengthening shadows crept, I saw the white-winged angels come With singing to our lowly home And kiss my darling as he slept. They must have heard his little prayer, For in the morn, with rapturous face, He toddled to the chimney-place, And found this little treasure there. They came again one Christmas-tide,-- That angel host, so fair and white! And singing all that glorious night, They lured my darling from my side. A little sock, a little toy, A little lock of golden hair, The Christmas music on the air, A watching for my baby boy! But if again that angel train And golden-head come back for me, To bear me to Eternity, My watching will not be in vain! 1879. DE AMICITIIS Though care and strife Elsewhere be rife, Upon my word I do not heed 'em; In bed I lie With books hard by, And with increasing zest I read 'em. Propped up in bed, So much I've read Of musty tomes that I've a headful Of tales and rhymes Of ancient times, Which, wife declares, are "simply dreadful!" They give me joy Without alloy; And isn't that what books are made for? And yet--and yet-- (Ah, vain regret!) I would to God they all were paid for! No festooned cup Filled foaming up Can lure me elsewhere to confound me; Sweeter than wine This love of mine For these old books I see around me! A plague, I say, On maidens gay; I'll weave no compliments to tell 'em! Vain fool I were, Did I prefer Those dolls to these old friends in vellum! At dead of night My chamber's bright Not only with the gas that's burning, But with the glow Of long ago,-- Of beauty back from eld returning. Fair women's looks I see in books, I see _them_, and I hear their laughter,-- Proud, high-born maids, Unlike the jades Which men-folk now go chasing after! Herein again Speak valiant men Of all nativities and ages; I hear and smile With rapture while I turn these musty, magic pages. The sword, the lance, The morris dance, The highland song, the greenwood ditty, Of these I read, Or, when the need, My Miller grinds me grist that's gritty! When of such stuff We've had enough, Why, there be other friends to greet us; We'll moralize In solemn wise With Plato or with Epictetus.