Blithe verse made all the dim sense clear
  That smiles of babbling babes conceal: 
Prayer’s perfect heart spake here:  and here
  Rose notes of blameless woe and weal,
  More soft than this poor song’s appeal. 
Where orchards bask, where cornfields wave,
They dropped like rains that cleanse and lave,
  And scattered all the year along,
Like dewfall on an April grave,
  Sweet water from the well of song.

Ballad, go bear our prayer, and crave
Pardon, because thy lowlier stave
  Can do this plea no right, but wrong. 
Ask nought beside thy pardon, save
  Sweet water from the well of song.

CRADLE SONGS.

(TO A TUNE OF BLAKE’S)

I.

Baby, baby bright,
Sleep can steal from sight
Little of your light: 

Soft as fire in dew,
Still the life in you
Lights your slumber through.

Four white eyelids keep
Fast the seal of sleep
Deep as love is deep: 

Yet, though closed it lies,
Love behind them spies
Heaven in two blue eyes.

II.

Baby, baby dear,
Earth and heaven are near
Now, for heaven is here.

Heaven is every place
Where your flower-sweet face
Fills our eyes with grace.

Till your own eyes deign
Earth a glance again,
Earth and heaven are twain.

Now your sleep is done,
Shine, and show the sun
Earth and heaven are one.

III.

Baby, baby sweet,
Love’s own lips are meet
Scarce to kiss your feet.

Hardly love’s own ear,
When your laugh crows clear,
Quite deserves to hear.

Hardly love’s own wile,
Though it please awhile,
Quite deserves your smile.

Baby full of grace,
Bless us yet a space: 
Sleep will come apace.

IV.

Baby, baby true,
Man, whate’er he do,
May deceive not you.

Smiles whose love is guile,
Worn a flattering while,
Win from you no smile.

One, the smile alone
Out of love’s heart grown,
Ever wins your own.

Man, a dunce uncouth,
Errs in age and youth: 
Babies know the truth.

V.

Baby, baby fair,
Love is fain to dare
Bless your haughtiest air.

Baby blithe and bland,
Reach but forth a hand
None may dare withstand;

Love, though wellnigh cowed,
Yet would praise aloud
Pride so sweetly proud.

No! the fitting word
Even from breeze or bird
Never yet was heard.

VI.

Baby, baby kind,
Though no word we find,
Bear us yet in mind.