Or call her rather a nestling dove
That fluttered down through the moonlight amber,
To be brooded under the wings of love
Here in a hushed and happy chamber.
May never a stain of our earth below
Dim her plumage, if this be so.
Or else I deem her a spell-bound lute,
Unconscious yet of her songful mission,
The silver melodies sealed and mute,
Waiting the breath of the sweet musician,
Even of Life. May Grief and Woe
Melt in her music, if this be so.
I liken her unto a pearl, — a pearl
From seas of trouble. But whist, my numbers !
What strains are these for our baby-girl,
Shut like a star in a mist of slumbers ?
They vex her dreams with their tuneless flow.
She heard the angels a night ago.
SLEEPING BESSIE.
LIGHTLY tread who come to peep
At the little maiden's sleep.
Let your steps the carpet cross,
Soft as sunshine over moss,
Lest her dream should suffer loss.
