The Child's Last Sleep

Thou sleepest--but when wilt thou wake, fair child?
When the fawn awakes in the forest wild?
When the lark’s wing mounts with the breeze of morn?
When the first rich breath of the rose is born?--
Lovely thou sleepest! yet something lies
Too deep and still on thy soft-seal’d eyes;
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see--
When will the hour of thy rising be?

Not when the fawn wakes--not when the lark
On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark.
Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet
The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet;
Love, with sad kisses unfelt, hath press’d
Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast;
And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee,
Shall colour all blossoms, fair child! but thee.

Thou’rt gone from us, bright one!--that thou shouldst die,
And life be left to the butterfly!
Thou’rt gone as a dewdrop is swept from the bough:
Oh! for the world where thy home is now!
How may we love but in doubt and fear,
How may we anchor our fond hearts here;
How should e’en joy but a trembler be,
Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?