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Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; Cobbett will soon
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; dream of the time
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sweet to men
LATIN HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.
VIRGIN Mother, thou hast known
So he wept and so he smiled ;
From the pains and perils spread
Pleasures idle, passions wild,
Make him whatsoe'er may be
To be true and just and mild,
By the wondrous mercy won
By the Heaven he reconciled,
Thus unscathed, thus undefiled,
Now the rite is duly done;
Now the word is spoken ; And the spell has made us one
Which may ne'er be broken :
Roam we o'er the heather,
Shall we not ? together.
From this hour the summer rose
Sweeter breathes to charm us ; From this hour the winter snows
Lighter fall to harm us : Fair or foul-on land or sea
Come the wind or weather, Best or worst, whate'er they be,
We shall share together.
Death, who friend from friend can part,
Brother rend from brother, Shall but link us, heart and heart,
Closer to each other : We will call his anger play,
Deem his dart a feather,
Hand in hand together.
SKETCH OF A YOUNG LADY
FIVE MONTHS OLD.
(October 10, 1836.) My pretty, budding, breathing flower,
Methinks, if I to-morrow
Sir Joshua's brush to borrow,
of all the myriad graces Which Time, while yet they all are new,
With newer still replaces. I'd paint, my child, your deep blue eyes,
Their quick and earnest flashes ; I'd paint the fringe that round them lies,
The fringe of long dark lashes;
One eyebrow, then the other,
The forehead of your mother.
Where health in sunshine dances ;
A thousand voiceless fancies; And the soft neck would keep me long,
The neck, more smooth and snowy
Had Caroline or Chloe.
Nor less upon the rosy charms
Of every tiny finger;
So prematurely clever
I think they'd jump for ever.
But then your odd endearing ways-
What canvass ere could match them?
Your murmur of petition, Your serious silence of content,
Your laugh of recognition.
Here were a puzzling toil, indeed,
For Art's most fine creations !Grow on, sweet baby ; we will need,
To note your transformations,
Your waking or your sleeping,
And trust to Memory's keeping.
Hereafter, when revolving years
Have made you tall and twenty, And brought you blended hopes and fears,
And sighs and slaves in plenty, May those who watch our little saint
Among her tasks and duties, Feel all her virtues hard to paint,
As now we deem her beauties.