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Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my king! Round whom the purple shadow lies Of babyhood's royal dignities. Lay on my neck thy tiny hand With Love's invisible scepter laden; I am thine Esther to command Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, Philip, my king! On the day that thou goest a-wooing, Philip, my king! When some beautiful lips 'gin suing, And some gentle heart's bars undoing Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there Sittest love-glorified! Rule kindly, Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair, For we that love, ah! we love so blindly, Philip, my king! I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, Philip, my king! The spirit that there lies sleeping now May rise like a giant, and make men bow As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers. My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer, Let me behold thee in future years! Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my king— A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, Philip, my king! Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray; Rebels within thee, and foes without, Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious, Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout, As thou sit'st at the feet of God victorious, "Philip, the king!" |