Oh, that I were but in my grave, THE LULLABY OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD, THE NIGHT PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION. SLEEP, Baby mine*, enkerchieft on my bosom, Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining, Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weeping, * Sir Philip Sidney has a poem beginning," Sleep, Baby mine." Sleep, Baby mine-To-morow I must leave thee, And I would snatch an interval of rest; Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave thee, For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast. MIGHTY magician! who on Torneo's brow, From lonely mariner foundering in the deep, While the weird sisters weave the horrid song: Serenely chaunt the orbs on high, And mark the northern meteor's dance, (While far below the fitful oar Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore,) And list the music of the breeze, That sweeps by fits the bending seas; And often bears with sudden swell By the spirits sung, who keep Their night-watch on the treacherous deep, |