The rest of the buried in sleep repose,
That nothing of waking or trouble knows,
For the woman the sleep of the grave is killed;
Her leaden sleep, each midnight hour,
Flees, and her limbs regain their power,
And she hastes as to tend her new-born child.
All with rash spite the watchman views,
And with cruel laughter the form pursues,
As he leans from the belfrey's narrow height,
And in sinful scorn on the tower rails