Baby's Seaside Grave

 ("Vieux lierre, frais gazon.") 
 
 {XXXVIII., 1840.} 


 Brown ivy old, green herbage new; 
 Soft seaweed stealing up the shingle; 
 An ancient chapel where a crew, 
 Ere sailing, in the prayer commingle. 
 A far-off forest's darkling frown, 
 Which makes the prudent start and tremble, 
 Whilst rotten nuts are rattling down, 
 And clouds in demon hordes assemble. 
 
 Land birds which twit the mews that scream 
 Round walls where lolls the languid lizard; 
 Brine-bubbling brooks where fishes stream 
 Past caves fit for an ocean wizard. 
 Alow, aloft, no lull—all life, 
 But far aside its whirls are keeping, 
 As wishfully to let its strife 
 Spare still the mother vainly weeping 
 O'er baby, lost not long, a-sleeping. 


 

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