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THE CHILD ASLEEP.
FROM THE FRENCH OF CLOTILDE DE SURVILLE.
Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father's face,
Sleep on the bosom, that thy lips have pressed ! Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast.
Upon that tender eye, my little friend,
Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me! I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend; —
’T is sweet to watch for thee,-alone for thee.
His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his brow;
His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. Wore not his cheek the apple’s ruddy glow,
you not say he slept on Death's cold arm?
Awake, my boy!-- I tremble with affright!
Awake, and chase this fatal thought !- unclose Thine
but for one moment on the light ! Even at the price of thine, give me repose !
Sweet error ! — he but slept, — I breathe again ; —
Come gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile ! O! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain,
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?
FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON.
For thee was a house built
Ere thou wert born,
For thee was a mould meant
Ere thou of mother camest.
But it is not made ready,
Nor is it seen
How long it shall be.
Now I bring thee
Now I shall measure thee,
And the mould afterwards.
Thy house is not
Doorless is that house,
There thou art fast detained, And Death hath the key. Loathsome is that earth-house, And grim within to dwell. There thou shalt dwell,
And worrns shall divide thee.
Thus thou art laid,
Who will ever see
The door for thee
And descend after thee,
And hateful to see.