THE CHILD ASLEEP.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CLOTILDE DE SURVILLE.

XV. CENTURY.

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,

Would 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 eye 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?

THE GRAVE

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 its depth measured,

Nor is it seen

How long it shall be.

Now I bring thee

Where thou shalt be.

Now I shall measure thee,

And the mould afterwards.

Thy house is not
Highly timbered,

It is unhigh and low;

When thou art therein,

The heel-ways are low,

The side-ways unhigh.

The roof is built

Thy breast full nigh,

So thou shalt in mould

Dwell full cold,

Dimly and dark.

Doorless is that house,

And dark it is within;

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 worms shall divide thee.

Thus thou art laid,

And leavest thy friends;

Thou hast no friend,

Who will come to thee,

Who will ever see

How that house pleaseth thee;

Who will ever open

The door for thee

And descend after thee,

For soon thou art loathsome

And hateful to see.