INFANCY.
(From the Feuilles d'Automne of Victor Hugo, translated in the Foreign Quarterly Review.)
In the dusky court,
Near the altar laid,
Sleeps the child in shadow,
Of his mother's bed:
Softly he reposes,
And his lids of roses.
Closed to earth, uncloses
On the heaven o'erhead.
Many a dream is with him,
Fresh from the fairy land,
Spangled o'er with diamonds
Seems the ocean sand;
Suns are gleaming there.
Troops of ladies fair
Souls of infants bear
In their charming hand.
O, enchanting vision,
Lo, a rill up-springs,
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 all, and lilies,
Every path enfold;
Lakes in shadow sleeping,
Silver fishes leaping,
And the waters creeping,
Through the reeds of gold.
Slumber on, sweet infant.
Slumber peacefully;
Thy young soul yet knows not
What thy lot may be.
Like dead leaves that sweep
Down the stormy 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 candour sit,
Ne'er with rugged nail hath writ
That sad word, "To-morrow."
Innocent, thou sleepest—
See the heavenly band.
Who foreknow the trials
That for man are planned;
Seeing him unarmed,
Unfearing, un-alarmed,
With their tears have warmed
His unconscious hand.
Angels, hovering o'er him,
Kiss him where he lies.
Hark, he sees them weeping,
"Gabriel," he cries;
"Hush," the angel says,
On his lip be lays
One finger, one displays
His native skies.