SONG FOR A BABE.

Little babe, while burns the west,

Warm thee, warm thee in my breast;

While the moon doth shine her best,

And the dews distil not.

All the land so sad, so fair —

Sweet its toils are, blest its care.

Child, we may not enter there!

Some there are that will not.

Fain would I thy margins know,

Land of work, and land of snow;

Land of life, whose rivers flow

On, and on, and stay not.

Fain would I thy small limbs fold,

While the weary hours are told,

Little babe in cradle cold.

Some there are that may not.