Or to a glance, or to a sigh;
Or to a low wind whispering by,
Which scarce has risen ere it die;
Or to a bird, whose rapid flight
Eludes the dazed observer's sight,
Or a stray shaft of glancing light,
That breaks upon the gathered gloom
Which veils some monumental tomb;
Or some sweet Spring flowers' fleeting bloom;—
Mixed part of reason, part belief,
Of pain and pleasure, joy and grief,
As changeful as the Spring, and brief;—
A wave, a shadow, a breath, a strife,
With change on change for ever rife:—
This is the thing we know as life.
CRADLED IN MUSIC.
A bright young mother, day by day,
I meet upon the crowded way,
Who turns her dark eyes, deep and mild,
Upon her little sleeping child
For on the organ laid asleep,
In childish slumbers light, yet deep,
Calmly the little infant lies;
The long fair lashes veil its eyes.
There, o'er its childish slumbers sweet,
The winged hours pass with rapid feet;
Far off the music seems to cheer
The child's accustomed drowsy ear.