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Poem	("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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