THE WATCHING ANGEL

 ("Dans l'alcôve sombre.") 
 
 {XX., November, 1831.} 


 In the dusky nook, 
 Near the altar laid, 
 Sleeps the child in shadow 
 Of his mother's bed: 
 Softly he reposes, 
 And his lid of roses, 
 Closed to earth, uncloses 
 On the heaven o'erhead. 
 
 Many a dream is with him, 
 Fresh from fairyland, 
 Spangled o'er with diamonds 
 Seems the ocean sand; 
 Suns are flaming there, 
 Troops of ladies fair 
 Souls of infants bear 
 In each charming hand. 
 
 Oh, enchanting vision! 
 Lo, a rill upsprings, 
 And from out its bosom 
 Comes a voice that sings 
 Lovelier there appear 
 Sire and sisters dear, 
 While his mother near 
 Plumes her new-born wings. 
 
 But a brighter vision 
 Yet his eyes behold; 
 Roses pied and lilies 
 Every path enfold; 
 Lakes delicious sleeping, 
 Silver fishes leaping, 
 Through the wavelets creeping 
 Up to reeds of gold. 
 
 Slumber on, sweet infant, 
 Slumber peacefully 
 Thy young soul yet knows not 
 What thy lot may be. 
 Like dead weeds that sweep 
 O'er the dol'rous deep, 
 Thou art borne in sleep. 
 What is all to thee? 
 
 Thou canst slumber by the way; 
 Thou hast learnt to borrow 
 Naught from study, naught from care; 
 The cold hand of sorrow 
 On thy brow unwrinkled yet, 
 Where young truth and candor sit, 
 Ne'er with rugged nail hath writ 
 That sad word, "To-morrow!" 
 
 Innocent! thou sleepest— 
 See the angelic band, 
 Who foreknow the trials 
 That for man are planned; 
 Seeing him unarmed, 
 Unfearing, unalarmed, 
 With their tears have warmed 
 This unconscious hand. 
 
 Still they, hovering o'er him, 
 Kiss him where he lies, 
 Hark, he sees them weeping, 
 "Gabriel!" he cries; 
 "Hush!" the angel says, 
 On his lip he lays 
 One finger, one displays 
 His native skies. 
 
 Foreign Quarterly Review 


 

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