Unconscious babe, though on that brow
No half-fledged misery nestles now,
Scarce round thy placid lips a smile
Maternal fondness shall beguile,
Ere the moist footsteps of a tear
Shall plant their dewy traces there,
And prematurely pave the way
For sorrows of a riper day.
Oh! could a father's prayer repel
The eye's sad grief, the bosom's swell;
Or could a father hope to bear
A darling child's allotted care,
Then thou, my babe, should slumber still,
Exempted from all human ill,
A parent's love thy peace should free,
And ask its wounds again for thee.
Sleep on, my child; the slumber brief
Too soon shall melt away to grief,
Too soon the dawn of woe shall break,
And briny rills bedew that cheek;
Too soon shall sadness quench those eyes,
That breast be agonized with sighs,
And anguish o'er the beams of noon
Lead clouds of care,-ah, much too soon!
Soon wilt thou reck of cares unknown,
Of wants and sorrows all their own,
Of many a pang, and many a woe,
That thy dear sex alone can know—
Of many an ill, untold, unsung,
That will not-may not find a tongue,
But kept conceal'd without control,
Spread the fell cancers of the soul.
Yet be thy lot, my babe, more bless'd,
May joy still animate thy breast;
Still, 'midst thy least propitious days,
Shedding its rich inspiring rays;
A father's heart shall daily bear
Thy name upon its secret prayer,
And as he seeks his last repose,
Thine image ease life's parting throes.
Then hail, sweet miniature of life!
Hail to this teeming stage of strife!
Pilgrim of many cares untold!
Lamb of the world's extended fold!
Fountain of hopes and doubts and fears!
Sweet promise of extatic years!
How could I fainly bend the knee,
And turn idolator to thee!
ADDRESSED BY LORD BYRON TO HIS LADY, A FEW MONTHS BEFORE THEIR SEPARATION.
THERE is a mystic thread of life
So dearly wreath'd with mine alone,
That destiny's relentless knife
At once must sever both or none.
There is a form on which these eyes
Had often gazed with fond delight;
By day that form their joy supplies,
And dreams restore it through the night.
There is a voice whose tones inspire
Such thrills of rapture through my breast; I would not hear a seraph choir
Unless that voice could join the rest.
There is a face whose blushes tell
Affection's tale upon the cheek; But pallid at one fond farewell,
Proclaims more love than words can speak.
There is a lip which mine hath press'd,
And none had ever press'd before,
It vow'd to make me sweetly bless'd,
And mine-mine only, press it more.
There is a bosom-all my own-
Hath pillow'd oft this aching head;
A mouth which smiles on me alone,
An eye
whose tears with mine are shed.
There are two hearts whose movements thrill
In unison so closely sweet!
That, pulse to pulse responsive still,
They both must heave-or cease to beat.
There are two souls whose equal flow,
In gentle streams so calmly run,
That when they part-they part!-ah, no!
They cannot part-those souls are one.
WHEN all around grew drear and dark,
And reason half withheld her ray-
And hope but shed a dying spark,
Which more misled my lonely way;
In that deep midnight of the mind,
And that internal strife of heart,
When dreading to be deem'd too kind,
The weak despair-the cold depart;
When fortune changed-and love fled far,
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast,
Thou wert the solitary star
Which rose and set not to the last.
Oh! blest be thine unbroken light!
That watch'd me as a seraph's eye,
And stood between me and the night,
For ever shining sweetly nigh.
And when the cloud upon us came,
Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray-
Then purer spread its gentle flame,
And dash'd the darkness all away.
Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,
And teach it what to brave or brook
There's more in one soft word of thine
Than in the world's defied rebuke. Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree, Whose branch unbroke, but gently bent, Still waves with fond fidelity
Its boughs above a monument.
The winds might rend—the skies might pour,
But there thou wert-and still would'st be
Devoted in the stormiest hour
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.
But thou and thine shall know no blight,
Whatever fate on me may fall;
For Heaven in sunshine will requite
The kind-and thee the most of all.
Then let the ties of baffled love
Be broken-thine will never break;
Thy heart can feel-but will not move;
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake.
And these, when all was lost beside,
Were found and still are fix'd on thee-
And bearing still a breast so tried,
Earth is no desert-even to me.
THOUGH the day of my destiny 's over,
And the star of my fate hath declined,
Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find;
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