Now! Then! 2025! - Yorkshire On This Day

Excerpt

Would I were, like Proteus, able
To transform my restless clay,
Once I’d use the power of fable,
Then I’d cast that power away.

Then I’d be a slumbering baby,
Never more to wake again;
Ever sleeping, ever happy –
Sleep’s a good exchange for pain.

Yet it will be – yes, it must be,
On my eyes a sleep shall fall,
And my flesh restored to dust be –
Death’s a sleep that lights on all.

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Original

TO AN INFANT SLEEPING.

Written under a depression of spirits, the result of frequent attacks of illness, May 18, 1836.

LOVELY creature, thou’rt a stranger
To the cares that mar the breast;
Free from grief and guilt and danger,
Little infant, take thy rest.

Thou hast now the world before thee,
‘Tis a tiresome world, I trow;
Little know’st thou what hangs o’er thee,
Ah! ’tis well thou dost not know.

If, as some have said, thy slumbers*
Show the path ’tis ours to tread,
‘Tis in sweet and holy numbers,
Such as charm the pious dead.

* Referring to a popular superstition–that infants dream of every thing that will happen to them.

‘Tis on Eden’s grove they ponder
Ere the two-edged sword was drawn;
Bliss and mortals torn asunder,
Woe’s dark day had seen its dawn.

Else the path of mercy leading
Back to Eden – back to God:
Not the path that I am treading,
Not the path that I have trod.

If at all in slumbers dreaming,
Thou hast found a pleasing theme;
‘Tis beyond thy life-spark’s gleaming,
Life was ne’er a laughing dream.

But methinks ’tis not a vision
Thus becalms and lulls thy brain;
‘Tis a balmy, sweet fruition,
I must never taste again.

Cares have racked my heart, and borne it
From the sphere in which it grew;
Projects foiled have rudely torn it,
Tinged with many a sickly hue.

Health’s a blessing, but she never
Casts a kindly glance at me:
When we parted, ’twas for ever
Doomed to dire hostility.

Evening spreads her sober covering
O’er the weary and the blest,
Round my head her dark shades hovering,
Come, but not to bring me rest.

Slumbering infant, I’ll not wake thee,
I will not thy bliss impair;
Soon, too soon, it will forsake thee,
Thus to lull thee, soon forbear.

Oh how lovely are the dozes
First that light on life begun!
Sweeter than a bed of roses
Smiling at the morning sun.

Calm as is the breast of ocean
Kissed by breezes warm and young,
Kindling soft refined emotion,
Suiting well the plaintive song.

Would I were, like Proteus, able
To transform my restless clay,
Once I’d use the power of fable,
Then I’d cast that power away.

Then I’d be a slumbering baby,
Never more to wake again;
Ever sleeping, ever happy –
Sleep’s a good exchange for pain.

Yet it will be – yes, it must be,
On my eyes a sleep shall fall,
And my flesh restored to dust be –
Death’s a sleep that lights on all.

527 words.

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• Barwick-in-Elmet (2) ·
• Burlend, Edward (1813-75) (1), Horsforth-born writer ·
• Depression (mood) (3) ·
• Poetry (71) ·

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