Sleep on--sleep on--the silver flowers
A pillow for thy head may be,
While Evening with her band of hours
Sits by thee silently.
From Morning in the vine-yards straying--
Sweet child, so fair and meek!
She lieth down, and tired of playing,
Darkens the bright grass with her cheek.
One arm upon her eyes she foldeth,
O'er which her hair is softly fann'd,
And still with fainting grasp she holdeth
The lilies in her hand.
Oh--wake her not! the forest streams
With balmy lips are breathing rest;
Nor stir the garland of sweet dreams
Which Sleep hath bound upon her breast.
_New Monthly Magazine_.
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