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Oh, that I were but in my grave,
And winds were piping o'er me loud,
Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud!
OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD, THE NIGHT
PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION.
*SLEEP Baby mine, enkerchieft on my bosom,
Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast ; Sleep Baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother,
To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest.
Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining,
Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled; Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning,
And I would fain compose my aching head.
Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weeping,
When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be: Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping,
In her low grave of shame and infamy!
* 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.
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,
Or when along the liquid sky
Their night watch on the treacherous deep,