p O E T Y. THE SLEEPING CHILD. The child ia nestling its bed, And throws about its little arms;
... The curia dishevelled on its bead Add grace unto its tiny charms. 'Tis lost to care, it never knew The depths of sorrow, for its tears Last briefer than the morning dew The golden-clouded autumn wears. Now still one moment; while its lips Blush deeper than the scarlet flowers; From pleasure's cop it ever sips, As blossoms quaff of April showers. The world to it is all unknown— What cares and ...