Philip, my King
“Who bears upon his baby brow the round
And top of sovereignty.”
Look at me with thy large brown eyes,
Philip, my king!
For round thee the purple shadow lies
Of babyhood’s royal dignities.
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand
With Love’s invisible sceptre laden;
I am thine Esther, to command
Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden,
Philip, my king!
O, the day when thou goest a-wooing,
Philip, my king!
When those 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!
Up 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 taller 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 sitt’st at the feet of God victorious,
“Philip, the king!”
Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.