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Rh

I leant her head upon my breast, As I but soothed her into rest;— I do not know what time might be   Past in this stony misery, When I was waken'd from my dream By my forgotten infant's scream. Then first I thought upon my child. I took it from its bed, it smiled, And its red cheek was flush'd with sleep: Why had it not the sense to weep? I laid its mother on the bed, O'er her pale brow a mantle spread, And left the wood. Calm, stern, and cold, The tale of blood and death I told; Gave my child to my brother's care As his, not mine were this despair.