And the requiem died in the forest’s gloom;
They had reach’d the exile’s lonely tomb.
THE DREAMING CHILD.
“Alas! what kind of grief should thy years know?
Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be
When no breath troubles them.”
Beaumont and Fletcher.
And is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy?
What should the cloud be made of? Blessed child!
Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy,