The Watching Angel.

("Dans l'alcve sombre.")     [XX., November, 1831.]     In the dusky nook,     Near the altar laid,     Sleeps the child in shadow     Of his mother's bed:     Softly he reposes,     And his lid of roses,     Closed to earth, uncloses     On the heaven o'erhead.     Many a dream is with him,     Fresh from fairyland,     Spangled o'er with diamonds     Seems the ocean sand;     Suns are flaming there,     Troops of ladies fair     Souls of infants bear     In each charming hand.     Oh, enchanting vision!     Lo, a rill upsprings,     And from out its bosom     Comes a voice that sings     Lovelier there appear     Sire and sisters dear,     While his mother near     Plumes her new-born wings.     But a brighter vision     Yet his eyes behold;     Roses pied and lilies     Every path enfold;     Lakes delicious sleeping,     Silver fishes leaping,     Through the wavelets creeping     Up to reeds of gold.     Slumber on, sweet infant,     Slumber peacefully     Thy young soul yet knows not     What thy lot may be.     Like dead weeds that sweep     O'er the dol'rous deep,     Thou art borne in sleep.     What is all to thee?     Thou canst slumber by the way;     Thou hast learnt to borrow     Naught from study, naught from care;     The cold hand of sorrow     On thy brow unwrinkled yet,     Where young truth and candor sit,     Ne'er with rugged nail hath writ     That sad word, "To-morrow!"     Innocent! thou sleepest -     See the angelic band,     Who foreknow the trials     That for man are planned;     Seeing him unarmed,     Unfearing, unalarmed,     With their tears have warmed     This unconscious hand.     Still they, hovering o'er him,     Kiss him where he lies,     Hark, he sees them weeping,     "Gabriel!" he cries;     "Hush!" the angel says,     On his lip he lays     One finger, one displays     His native skies.     Foreign Quarterly Review