I have no houses, builded well—­
Only that little lonesome cell,
Where never romping playmates come,
Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb—­
An April burst of girls and boys,
Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joys
Born with their songs, gone with their toys;
Nor ever is its stillness stirred
By purr of cat, or chirp of bird,
Or mother’s twilight legend, told
Of Horner’s pie, or Tiddler’s gold,
Or fairy hobbling to the door,
Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor,
To bless the good child’s gracious eyes,
The good child’s wistful charities,
And crippled changeling’s hunch to make
Dance on his crutch, for good child’s sake.

How is it with the child?  ’Tis well;
Nor would I any miracle
Might stir my sleeper’s tranquil trance,
Or plague his painless countenance: 
I would not any seer might place
His staff on my immortal’s face. 
Or lip to lip, and eye to eye,
Charm back his pale mortality. 
No, Shunamite!  I would not break
God’s stillness.  Let them weep who wake.

For Charlie’s sake my lot is blest: 
No comfort like his mother’s breast,
No praise like hers; no charm expressed
In fairest forms hath half her zest. 
For Charlie’s sake this bird’s caressed
That death left lonely in the nest;
For Charlie’s sake my heart is dressed,
As for its birthday, in its best;
For Charlie’s sake we leave the rest. 
To Him who gave, and who did take,
And saved us twice, for Charlie’s sake.

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

WATCHING FOR PAPA.

She always stood upon the steps
  Just by the cottage door,
Waiting to kiss me when I came
  Each night home from the store. 
Her eyes were like two glorious stars,
  Dancing in heaven’s own blue—­
“Papa,” she’d call like a wee bird,
  “I’s looten out for oo!”

Alas! how sadly do our lives
  Change as we onward roam! 
For now no birdie voice calls out
  To bid me welcome home. 
No little hands stretched out for me,
  No blue eyes dancing bright,
No baby face peeps from the door
  When I come home at night.

And yet there’s comfort in the thought
  That when life’s toil is o’er,
And passing through the sable flood
  I gain the brighter shore,
My little angel at the gate,
  With eyes divinely blue,
Will call with birdie voice, “Papa,
  I’s looten out for oo!”

ANONYMOUS.

MY CHILD.

    I cannot make him dead! 
    His fair sunshiny head
Is ever bounding round my study chair;
    Yet when my eyes, now dim
    With tears, I turn to him,
The vision vanishes,—­he is not there!

    I walk my parlor floor,
    And, through the open door,
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
    I’m stepping toward the hall
    To give the boy a call;
And then bethink me that—­he is not there!