Text: N. P. Willis (?), Review of Miss Barrett, Drama of Exile and Other Poems, Evening Mirror (New York), October 8, 1844, vol. 1, no. 2, p. 1, cols. 1-2

How he sleepeth! having drunken

Weary childhood's mandragore,

From his pretty eyes have sunken

Pleasures, to make room for more —

Sleeping near the withered nosegay, which he pulled the day before.

 

Nosegays! leave them for the waking!

Throw them earthward where they grew;

Dim are such beside the breaking

Amaranths he looks unto —

Folded eyes see brighter colours than the open ever do.

 

Heaven-flowers, rayed by shadows golden

From the paths they sprang beneath,

Now perhaps divinely holden,

Swing against him in a wreath —

We may think so from the quickening of his bloom and of his breath.

 

Vision unto vision calleth,

While the young child dreameth on;

Fair, O dreamer, thee befalleth

With the glory thou hast won!

Darker wert thou in the garden, yestermorn, by summer sun.

 

We should see the spirits ringing

Round thee, — were the clouds away!

’Tis the child-heart draws them, singing

In the silent-seeming clay —

Singing! — Stars that seem the mutest, go in music all the way.

 

As the moths around a taper,

As the bees around a rose,

As at sunset, many a vapour, —

So the spirits group and close

Round about a holy childhood, as if drinking its repose.

 

Shapes of brightness overlean thee,

With their diadems of youth

Striking on the ringlets sheenly, —

While thou smilest,. . . not in sooth

Thy smile,. . . but the overfair one, dropt from some ethereal mouth.

 

Haply it is angels’ duty,

During slumber, shade by shade

To fine down this childish beauty

To the thing it must be made,

Ere the world shall bring it praises, or the tomb shall see it fade.

 

Softly, softly! make no noises!

Now he lieth dead and dumb —

Now he hears the angels’ voices

Folding silence in the room —

Now he muses deep the meaning of the heaven-words as they come.

 

Speak not! he is consecrated —

Breathe no breath across his eyes;

Lifted up and separated

On the hand of God he lies,

In a sweetness beyond touching, — held in cloistral sanctities.

 

Could ye bless him — father — mother?

Bless the dimple in his cheek?

Dare ye look at one another,

And the benediction speak?

Would ye not break out in weeping, and confess yourselves too weak?

 

He is harmless — ye are sinful, —

Ye are troubled — he, at ease!

From his slumber, virtue winful

Floweth outward with increase —

Dare not bless him! but be blessed by his peace — and go in peace.

Napoleon! years ago and that great word

Compact of human breath in hate and dread, [column 2:]

And exultation, skied us overhead —

An atmosphere whose lightning was the sword,

Scathing the cedars of the world, — drawn down

In burnings, by the metal of a crown.

 

That name was shouted near the pyramidal

Egyptian tombs, whose mummied habitants,

Packed to humanity's significance,

Motioned it back with stillness! Shouts as idle

As hireling artists’ work of myrrh and spice,

Which swathed last glories round the Ptolemies.

Sleep on, baby, on the floor,

Tired of all the playing, —

Sleep with smile the sweeter for

That you dropped away in!

On your curls’ full roundness, stand

Golden lights serenely —

One cheek, pushed out by the hand,

Folds the dimple inly:

Little head and little foot

Heavy laid for pleasure,

Underneath the lids half-shut,

Slants the shining azure; —

Open-souled in noonday sun,

So, you lie and slumber!

Nothing evil, having done,

Nothing can encumber.

 

I, who cannot sleep as well,

Shall I sigh to view you?

Or sigh further to foretell

All that may undo you?

Nay, keep smiling, little child,

Ere the sorrow neareth, —

I will smile too! Patience mild

Pleasure's token weareth.

Nay, keep sleeping, before loss;

I shall sleep though losing!

As by cradle, so by cross,

Sure is the reposing.

 

And God knows, who sees us twain,

Child as childish leisure,

I am near as tired of pain

As you seem of pleasure; —

Very soon too, by His grace

Gently wrapt around me,

Shall I show as calm a face,

Shall I sleep as soundly!

Differing in this, that you

Clasp your playthings sleeping,

While my hand shall drop the few

Given to my keeping;

Differing in this, that I

Sleeping, shall be colder,

And in waking presently,

Brighter to beholder!

Differing in this beside

(Sleeper, have you heard me?

Do you move, and open wide

Eyes of wonder toward me?) —

That while I, you, draw withal

From your slumber, solely, —

Me, from mine, an angel shall,

With reveillie holy!