The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
TO AN INFANT SLEEPING. |
| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
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TO AN INFANT SLEEPING.
Sweet Baby Boy! thy soft cheek glows
An emblem of the living rose;
Thy breath a zephyr seems to rise,
And placid are thy half-clos'd eyes;
And silent is thy snowy breast,
Which gently heaves in transient rest;
And dreaming is thy infant brain
Of pleasure undisturb'd by pain.
An emblem of the living rose;
Thy breath a zephyr seems to rise,
And placid are thy half-clos'd eyes;
And silent is thy snowy breast,
Which gently heaves in transient rest;
And dreaming is thy infant brain
Of pleasure undisturb'd by pain.
Soon will thy Youth to sorrow rise,
And tears will dim those half-clos'd eyes;
And storms shall fade that living rose,
And keen unkindness wound repose.
Soon will thy slumbers painful be,
And thou wilt watch and weep—like me!
And thou wilt shrink with fear aghast
From wild Misfortune's chilling blast.
And tears will dim those half-clos'd eyes;
And storms shall fade that living rose,
And keen unkindness wound repose.
Soon will thy slumbers painful be,
And thou wilt watch and weep—like me!
And thou wilt shrink with fear aghast
From wild Misfortune's chilling blast.
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Ah! then no more in balmy sleep
Shall mem'ry fond her garland steep;
No more shall visions sweetly gay
Sport in the coming beams of day;
No more thy downy pillow be
A pillow, Boy, of down for thee!
For many a thorn shall ruthless Care
In envious rancour scatter there!
Shall mem'ry fond her garland steep;
No more shall visions sweetly gay
Sport in the coming beams of day;
No more thy downy pillow be
A pillow, Boy, of down for thee!
For many a thorn shall ruthless Care
In envious rancour scatter there!
Sweet Baby Boy! then sleep awhile,
For Youth will never wake to smile;
Time flings its poisons round the bed
Where Manhood lays his weary head:
The summer day of life will lour
As long, Poor Boy, as winter's hour,
Unless the goddess Fortune brings
The magic of her golden wings!
For Youth will never wake to smile;
Time flings its poisons round the bed
Where Manhood lays his weary head:
The summer day of life will lour
As long, Poor Boy, as winter's hour,
Unless the goddess Fortune brings
The magic of her golden wings!
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |