As a young mother’s by the cradle singing,
Would soothe him with sweet aves, gently bringing
Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow
Ebb’d from his hollow cheek.
At last faint gleams
Of memory dawn’d upon the cloud of dreams;
And feebly lifting, as a child, his head,
And gazing round him from his leafy bed,
He murmur’d forth, “Where am I? What soft strain
Pass’d like a breeze across my burning brain?