BEATRICE. And lo! my farther course cut off a river, All waters that on earth most limpid are, Would seem to have within themselves some mixture, Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal, Although it moves on with a brown, brown current, Under the shade perpetual, that never Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. BEATRICE. FROM DANTE, PURGATORIO, XXX. XXXI. EVEN as the Blessed, in the new covenant, So, upon that celestial chariot, A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis, They all were saying: "Benedictus qui venis," And scattering flowers above and round about, "Manibus o date lilia plenis." I once beheld, at the approach of day, The orient sky all stained with roseate hues, And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed, Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers, With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil, Even as the snow, among the living rafters And then, dissolving, filters through itself, Even such I was, without a sigh or tear, But, when I heard in those sweet melodies Compassion for me, more than had they said, "O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him?" The ice that was about my heart congealed, Confusion and dismay, together mingled, Forced such a feeble "Yes!" out of my mouth, Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 'tis discharged, So I gave way under this heavy burden, For Winter maketh the light heart sad, And thou,-thou makest the sad heart gay. The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain; Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old, And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, We must cower over the embers low; And, snugly housed from the wind and weather, Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky d; Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud When thy merry step draws near. THE CHILD ASLEEP. FROM THE FRENCH. SWEET babe! true portrait of thy father's face, Sleep on the bosom, that thy lips have pressed! Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast. Upon that tender eye, my little friend, Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me! I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ;'Tis sweet to watch for thee, alone for thee! His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow; His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm? Awake, my boy!—I tremble with affright! Awake, and chase this fatal thought!-Unclose Thine eye but for one moment on the light! Sweet error!-he but slept,-I breathe again; |