Some slumberer waken’d nigh:
What words the parent’s joy can tell,
To hear his infant cry!
Conceal’d beneath a mangled heap,
His hurried search had miss’d,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub-boy he kiss’d.
Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread—
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead