WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED

Lo ! I knock the spurs away ;

Lo ! I loosen belt and brand ; Hark ! I hear the courser neigh

For his stall in Fairy-land.

Bring the cap, and bring the vest;

Buckle on his sandal shoon ; Fetch his memory from the chest

In the treasury of the moon.

I have taught him to be wise For a little maiden's sake ;

Lo ! he opens his glad eyes, Softly, slowly : Minstrel, wake !

��SARA COLERIDGE 661. s/eep, my Babe

SLEEP, my babe, hear not the rippling wave, Nor feel the breeze that round thee ling'ring strays

To drink thy balmy breath,

And sigh one long farewell.

Soon shall it mourn above thy wat'ry bed, And whisper to me, on the wave-beat shore,

Deep murm'ring in reproach,

Thy sad untimely fate.

Ere those dear eyes had open'd on the light, In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold,

O waken'd but to sleep,

Whence it can wake no more !

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