King “by the grace of God!” where is the token By which we know thy right it is to reign! Jehovah’s will, of old, in words was spoken, Who heard His voice thy sovereignty proclaim? No! thou art king, _not_ by “the grace of God,” But usurpation only—guiltless he That doth resist thy claims, and, though in blood Poured out like water, rids the earth of thee! * * * * * OUR CHILDHOOD BY JANE GAY. How brightly did the summer’s sun Wake up the dewy morn, And chase the misty shadows from The cot where we were born; It stood amid the peaceful hills Where worldlings never rove, The violet-spotted earth around— The glorious sky above. Two tall elms were its sentinels, With arms uplifted high; And these were all we needed, save The watchers of the sky; And while amid the thick, green leaves The moonbeams dallied bright, The stars looked down on us at play, Oft on the summer night. O, every month of childhood’s years, How well do I remember, With all their smiles and fleeting tears, From New Year’s till December; No care or burden had we then— No life-lines on the brow; We knew it not—I wonder if We’re any wiser now. Were we not with ye, brothers, when With spade or hoe ye sped To dig the homely artichoke From out its winter bed? Or when, with boyhood’s free, glad shout, Ye ran with pole and hook, To draw the golden-spotted trout From out the alder-brook? Ay, ay! and I must tell it, too, Ye’d _sometimes_ play the churls; And cry, when we would run away— “_Mother, call back the girls_!” And then came tasks of knitting-work For us, and dreaded patch, With sullen faces, till we thought To try a knitting match. The summer days were ne’er too long For busy life like ours; For every hill had berries then, And every meadow, flowers. And joyfully, when school was done, We’d stay to glean our store; For though we loved the school-book well, We loved the free hills more. And very pleasant ’mid those hills September’s sun did shine, As we went forth to gather grapes From many a loaded vine; And while October’s gorgeous hues Of red and gold were seen; We searched for chestnuts in the wood, Or pulled the winter-green. And when November’s winds came chill With icy sleet and rain, We knew the old brown barns were filled With stores of golden grain; And what cared we how bleak or cold The wintry storms might rise— Our dreams were of Thanksgiving-days, And all their wealth of pies.