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!

58

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 'mid 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!

A. C.

THE DYING GLADIATOR.

I SEE before me the Gladiator lie:

He leans upon his hand-his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low-
And through his side the last drops ebbing
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

your ire.

BYRON.

TO A CHILD,

ON RECOVERY FROM ILLNESS.

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,

Upon the parlour's chequer'd plain,
Thy party-coloured lawn;

Thou little reck'st the depths of fear
Thy smile hath made to disappear.

The music of that gentle voice,
The prattle of thy tongue,
Sweeter than when spring's melodies
Awake the woods to song,

And, like thy lisping numbers, ope

Life's season, with the voice of hope.

Young dream of life, a mother's love
Guards thee with tenderest care;
Sleep on her breast, my little dove,

Safe in love's shelter there;
Sleep out thy little span of hope,
Life's cares too soon thine eyes will ope.

Sleep on thy father trusteth yet
For many a joyous hour,
Before life's opening bud, elate,

Expand into a flower;

And spring and summer on thee shower In smiles and tears, Time's fickle dower.

And thou shalt grow, as years roll on; And childhood's winning ways,

And youth's simplicity disown

In all its merry maze;

Till in thy glass, approving seen,

A stately lady of sixteen!

Thy look demure, thine eye ascance,
Thy curtsy formal as austere,
Still singling out with stealthy glance
Some model high and debonair,
And scolding down thy merry heart,
To play the formal woman's part.