No tread of foot—no song—no music-call—
Only the sound of melancholy bells—
The voice of Time—survivor of them all!
[TO A SLEEPING CHILD.]
I.
Oh, 'tis a touching thing, to make one weep,—
A tender infant with its curtain'd eye,
Breathing as it would neither live nor die
With that unchanging countenance of sleep!
As if its silent dream, serene and deep,