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Goethe.
TO A DYING 1N7ANT.
Sleep ! little baby ! sleep !
Not in thy cradle bed, Not on thy mother's breast Henceforth shall be thy rest,
But quiet with the dead.
Yes ! with the quiet dead,
Baby thy rest shall be; Oh ! many a weary wight, Weary of life and light,
Would fain lie down with thee.
Flee little tender nursling !
Flee to thy place of rest! There the first flowers shall blow, The first pure flake of snow
Shall fall upon thy breast.
Peace ! Peace ! the little bosom
Labours with shortening breath— Peace ! Peace! that tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh— These are the damps of death.
I've seen thee in thy beauty,
A thing all health and glee ! But never then wert thou So beautiful, as now,
Baby ! thou seem's
