And, conscious of sleep's dread repose,
Arouse the slumberer from the grave;
And o'er him breathe thy vital breath,
And, by thy warmth, reclaim from death!

Thou ne'er again shalt gladly bear

The panier, yoked thy neck around,

Press to the famished lip its fare,

And bring the band to close the wound; And, by thy healing tongue, supply The balm that lessens agony!

*

Ah! thou no more shalt homeward bring The infant through the frozen air; And as with hand half-human-ring The Convent bell-nor quit thy care, Till on the hearth, before the blaze, Thou on his opening eyelids gaze!

Long on thy loss that hearth shall dwell;Friend of mankind! farewell!-farewell!

TO INIS.

FROM THE SPANISH.

WHAT shall I compare thee to?
Moonlight?-that will never do!
That is tranquil,-thou art never
Calm for one half hour;-for ever
Restless, reckless, thoughtless, ranging,-
-The moon is one whole month in changing!

What shall I compare thee to?
Sunbeams?-no!-though one or two,

I grant thou hast stolen-heaven knows how !-
To diadem thy beauteous brow :-

But thou art not of them,-for they

Shine on our earth (sometimes) a day!

What shall I compare thee to ?-
I have it!-yes!-alas, how true!

Thou art that radiance on the sea
That, beautiful-but murderously-

Smiles and shines,-while snares and death

Lurk its brilliant rays beneath!

THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP.

The lovely child is dead!

All, all his innocent thoughts, like rose-leaves, scattered,
And his glad childhood nothing but a dream!

WILSON.

THOU sleepest!--but when wilt thou wake, fair child! When the fawn awakes, in the forest wild?

When the lark's wing mounts, with the breeze of morn?
When the first rich breath of the rose is born?—

Lovely thou sleepest-yet something lies
Too deep and still on thy soft-sealed eyes!
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see;
---When will the hour of thy rising be?

Not when the fawn wakes,—not when the lark,
On the crimson cloud of the morn, floats dark!
-Grief, with vain passionate tears, hath wet
The hair shedding gleams o'er thy pale brow, yet;
Love, with sad kisses-unfelt-hath prest
Thy meek drooped eyelids, and quiet breast ;—
And the glad spring, calling out bird and bee,
Shall colour all blossoms, fair child, but thee!