“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.