This grave's a cradle where an infant lies,
Rockt fast asleepe with Death's sad lullabyes.

Sad lullabyes, dear child--in this sweet spot,
The chime of hourly clock,--the mountain stream
That ever sends up to thy resting place
Its gush of many voices--and the crow
Of matin cock, faint it may be but shrill,
From elm embosomed farms along the dells,--
These are thy lullabyes--who would not sleep
Thus husht and sung to with all sweetest sounds?
And I can stand beside thy cradle, child,
And see yon belt of clouds in silent pomp
Midway the mountain passing slowly on,
Whose beaconed top peers over on the vale;--
And upward narrowing in thick--timbered dells
Dark solemn coombs, with wooded buttresses
Propping his mighty weight--each with its stream,
Now leaping sportfully from crag to crag,
Now smoothed in clear black pools--then in the vales
Through lanes of bowering foliage glittering on,
By cots and farms and peaceful villages,
And meadows brightest green. Who would not sleep
Rockt in so fair a cradle? But that word--
That one word--'death,' comes over my sick brain
Wrapping my vision in a sudden swoon;
Blotting the gorgeous pomp of sun and shade,
Mountain, and wooded cliff, and sparkling stream,
With a thick dazzling darkness.--Who art thou
Under this hillock on the mountain side?
I love the like of thee with a deep love,
And therefore called thee dear--thee who art now
A handful of dull earth. No lullabyes
Hearest thou now, be they or sweet or sad;
No revelry of streams, no pomp of clouds,
Not the blue top of mountain--nor the woods
Which clothe the steeps, have any joy for thee.
Go to then--tell me not of balmiest rest
In fairest cradle--for I never felt
One half so keenly as I feel it now,
That not the promise of the sweetest sleep
Can make me smile on Death. Yet I do smile,
Because we shall not sleep.