Think you that gazing on its mimic self,
Sleep, beautiful and wondrous, in the crib,
His owlish thoughts would not wing suddenly,
Through cycles of decay, back to the time
When he was one with Sleep, and passing fair;
Think you he would not sigh, "Sleep, on! sleep on!
Thou copy and thou counterfeit of me,
And teach the world that I was beautiful."
The child is sleeping.

MONK.

O my son! my son!
These are delusions that but wrong the soul,
And keep the aching thoughts from peace and Heaven.

LLEWELLYN.

Why, Father, if Death woke him as he lay,
The lad would look up at him with a smile,
And twist his little limbs in childish sport,
Until the angel, surfeited with fear,
Would love and spare the thing that fear'd him not.
No man could see his pretty ways and frown,--
And he was full of little childish tricks,
That won the very heart out of a man
In spite of him. There's Beowolf the Curst,
With ne'er a gentle word for man or child,
But cold and crusty as a northern hill--
Why this day sen'night did my master there,