Oh, that I were but in my grave, THE LULLABY OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD, THE NIGHT PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION. *SLEEP Baby mine, enkerchieft on my bosom, Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining, Poor wayward wretch! and who`will heed thy weeping, * Sir Philip Sidney has a Poem beginning "Sleep Baby mine." Sleep, Baby mine-To-morrow I must leave thee, And I would snatch an interval of rest; Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave thee, For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast. ODE, ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A. On seeing Engravings from his Designs. MIGHTY Magician! who on Torneo's brow, When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below; And listen to the distant death-shriek long From lonely mariner foundering in the deep, Which rises slowly up the rocky steep, While the weird sisters weave the horrid song: Or when along the liquid sky Serenely chaunt the orbs on high, Dost love to sit in musing trance (While far below the fitful oar Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore.) And list the music of the breeze, That sweeps by fits the bending seas; And often bears with sudden swell The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell, By the spirits sung who keep Their night watch on the treacherous deep, |