“THE CHILDREN’S HOUR.”

“THE CHILDREN’S HOUR.”

The cawing rooks fly to their nests;

Again the song-birds hush their lay;

O’er all the world a stillness rests,

And twilight shadows dance and play.

The book is closed, hands folded o’er,

The work, that rests the while, undone;

See! glad young faces at the door,

And hark! the peals of mirth and fun.

Yes, ’tis the children’s hour,

To waiting arms they run.

The little faces vie to press

Warm kisses on our willing lips,

While loving prayers, unspoken, bless

The sunny heads, and finger tips

Pass gently o’er the cheek’s soft bloom—

That seems as stolen from the rose;

Then merry voices fill the room,

As round the fire-lit hearth we close,

For ’tis the children’s hour,

Which nought but brightness knows.

“Play with us, play!” Ah, yes, young hearts,

Well that your voices coax, and make

Us for awhile forget the smarts

Of striving day for your brief sake.

“Sing with us, sing!” and youthful notes

Rise shrill in some time-hallowed strain.

Discord—sweet discord round us floats,

And ageing hearts grow young again—

It is the children’s hour,

That knows nor care nor pain.

“Now tell us stories, mother, dear!”

How sweet the old and matchless word!

Sweeter than aught that else we hear

From children’s lips. What memories stirr’d

By that loved name rush o’er the soul!

For sheltering arms we once more yearn

Now folded ’neath the grassy knoll.

Would that the children’s hour

For her, too, could return.

“Come, children, nestle close to me

And question with your lips and eyes,

For, as ye listen, I would see

The starting flush and sweet surprise

At tales of brownie and of fay

That hide within your favourite glen,

And ’neath the moonlight’s flickering ray

Bring fairy gifts to slumbering men.”

Sweet lore of children’s hour,

Why need we further ken?

Ah! little ones, ye hold us fast

And thoughts of you like joy-bells chime

Around our lives, and link the past

And present in one long sweet rhyme.

And slumbering echoes wake anew,

For purity glows in your eyes,

And truth from out them shines so true

That from our hearts all falseness flies.

It is the children’s hour

When purest thoughts arise.

The years roll by and leave their taint

Of sin upon us, and the weight

Of self-wrought grief, until we faint

Beneath the burden grown so great.

Fretted by sight of others’ pain,

The voiceless suffering of the weak;

“Wherefore?” we cry, but all in vain,

No answering oracle doth speak.

And in the children’s hour

We fain for peace would seek.

Far off like some grand snowy height

That gleams anon through driving mist,

Some great End flashes on our sight;

And on that peak the sun hath kissed,

Could we but stand, thence gazing back

Perchance Heaven’s echoes we might hear,

Perchance Heaven’s light upon our track

Might show the good of every tear,

And in the children’s hour

Life’s riddles read more clear.

Speak to our hearts, each bright young heart,

Perfect in love and faith, and bid

Us know that e’en as petals part

To breathe the fragrance ’neath them hid,

So do ye breathe around life’s hours

The sweetness nought can steal away,

The sweetness of our cherished flowers.

Then ope bright blooms upon our way,

And make the children’s hour

With beauty crown each day.

Play on, ye little ones, play on,

And cheer us with your guileless mirth;

Too soon your careless days are gone

And later years see sorrow’s birth.

We love your bright eyes’ merry glance,

We love your voices’ gleesome ring;

To trip with you th’ unrhythm’d dance

Again doth childlike rapture bring.

It is the children’s hour,

Sing on, ye children, sing.

Ye cradle our lost dreams anew,

Ye make love’s echoes ceaseless sound,

And, if for some the stretching yew

O’erguards a tiny daisied mound,

They have but laid their treasures where

God’s angels tread with sacred feet;

They have but Heavenward sent a prayer

That, lisped before the mercy-seat,

In God’s own children’s hour

Shall win an answer sweet.

K. C.