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TO A SLEEPING CHILD, SMILING.
SLEEP on, my beautiful! Shroud the blue heaven of that laughing eye; Bid the dark fringes, that in fond embrace Press o'er the mantling cheek, droop heavily,
Sleep on, my child !
Thou'rt 'mid the spirit land ! See, by the childhood's happy dreams beguiled, The full lips part in their own sunny arch; Angels are whispering to thee, my child,
Sleep on, sleep on!
Again thou smilest, sweet, See the small fingers close in eager grasp, While the bright flushing deepens on thy brow, As though thou would'st some fairy gift enclasp,
Wake not, my child !
What is't, my golden haired ? Send thy glad music on the gushing breeze ? Waft thy sweet odours from the sun-stor'd founts That crown'd the waving tops of Eden's trees ?
Rest thee, mine own!
TO A SLEEPING CHILD, SMILING.
What seest thou, fairest ? Come they in floods of golden light, my boy, That thy clear arching brow expands as though The slumber-shrouded eye looked forth in joy?
Be still, be still!
What tell their whispers low? [rays, Speak they of fadeless flowers, of suns whose Fed from eternal founts, flow on in one Bright ceaseless course of still unchanging days,
My beautiful ?
Or speak they not, mine own? But have they led thee ʼmid the spirit throng? And seest thou her, the fairy child, who went Before thee, and for aye, those scenes among ?
O wake not, then!
Perchance they smile, beloved ! And pour upon thine eager, outstretched ear Sweet words of love, glad promise of the watch That they, untiring, keep beside thee here.
Sleep on, fair child !
Rest in thine innocence ! Too soon thou'lt wake unto the woes of life, Th' undying consciousness of pain and sin, And the fierce workings of the world's wild strife!
Sleep on then, sleep!
THE DYING GLADIATOR.
I SEE before me the Gladiator lie:
slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder shower; and now
The arena swims around him-he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout, which hailed the
wretch who won.
He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away; He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother-he, their
sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday ! All this rushed with his blood-Shall he ex
pire, And unrevenged ? Arise, ye Goths, and glut
TO A CHILD,
ON RECOVERY FROM ILLNRSS.
ONCE more thy merry laugh, dear child,
Thy mirth and romping glee Bursts out as sunshine that hath smiled
Through spring clouds, tearfully; But all the brighter for the gloom That to thy sunny smile makes room.
Sport in thy pretty ways again,
My little bounding fawn,
Thy party-coloured lawn;
The music of that gentle voice,
The prattle of thy tongue,
Awake the woods to song,
Young dream of life, a mother's love
Guards thee with tenderest care;
Safe in love's shelter there;
Sleep on: thy father trusteth yet
For many a joyous hour,
Expand into a flower;
And thou shalt grow, as years
In all its merry maze;
Thy look demure, thine eye ascance,
Thy curtsy formal as austere,
Some model high and debonair,