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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