He
was ready to respond to the impulses of the nation's heart, which he
had felt in his communion with its purest and best life, when, in
later years, its expectation gave place to action, and many of his
political poems are bold and noble. But his finest poems are those
which celebrate the affections of the household, and poetize the
pathetic beauty of toil and poverty in city and country. He sings with
a tenderness peculiarly winning of the love of mothers and children,
and I shall give the best notion of the poet's best in the following
beautiful lullaby, premising merely that the title of the poem is the
Italian infantile for sleep:
Sleep, sleep, sleep! my little girl:
Mother is near thee. Sleep, unfurl
Thy veil o'er the cradle where baby lies!
Dream, baby, of angels in the skies!
On the sorrowful earth, in hopeless quest,
Passes the exile without rest;
Where'er he goes, in sun or snow,
Trouble and pain beside him go.
But when I look upon thy sleep,
And hear thy breathing soft and deep,
My soul turns with a faith serene
To days of sorrow that have been,
And I feel that of love and happiness
Heaven has given my life excess;
The Lord in his mercy gave me thee,
And thou in truth art part of me!
Thou knowest not, as I bend above thee,
How much I love thee, how much I love thee;
Thou art the very life of my heart,
Thou art my joy, thou art my smart!
Thy day begins uncertain, child:
Thou art a blossom in the wild;
But over thee, with his wings abroad,
Blossom, watches the angel of God.
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