Yet if pain were pain to thee, I would bid thee, baby, sleep; Rest thee, rest thee, little one! Note,- This lyrical fragment, preserved through twenty-four centuries, possesses in the original Greek a tenderness and melody of surpassing delicacy. The poet's theme is Danäe, exposed with her infant (of whom her father had a superstitious fear) in an open ark, or coffer, to the fury of the waves. According to the poem, "When the wild winds beat upon the wroughten ark, and the perturbed sea brought terror to her soul, she threw her arms around Perseus, and sang: 'Little one, thy mother's weeping!'" etc. A MOTHER'S EVENING HYMN BY MARTIN LUTHER TRANSLATED BY JOHN CHRISTIAN JACOBI (1722) Sleep well, my dear, sleep safe and free; Who always see thy Father's face, Thou liest in down, soft every way; Than the hard crib where He did rest. God make thy mother's health increase, To see thee grow in strength and grace, In wisdom and humility, As infant Jesus did for thee. Sleep now, my dear, and take thy rest; And if with riper years thou'rt blest, Increase in wisdom, day and night, Till thou attain'st th' eternal Light. THE COTTAGER'S LULLABY BY DOROTHY WORDSWORTH The days are cold, the nights are long; The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse; Nay, start not at that sparkling light; SWEDISH MOTHER'S LULLABY BY FREDERIKA BREMER There sitteth a dove, so fair and white, All on a lily spray; And she listeneth how to the Saviour above Lightly she spreads her friendly wings, And back she comes from heaven's gate, And brings that dove so mild From the Father in heaven, who hears her speak, A blessing for every child. SEA SLUMBER-SONG BY RODEN NOEL Sea-birds are asleep, The world forgets to weep, Sea murmurs her soft slumber-song Of this elfin land; "I, the Mother mild, Hush thee, O my child, Dream, the rocks and caves, Of this elfin land; To slumber woos and wins, I murmur my soft slumber-song, MOTHER-SONG * BY ALFRED AUSTIN White little hands! Pink little feet! Dimpled all over, Sweet, sweet, sweet! What dost thou wail for? The unknown? the unseen? The ills that are coming, The joys that have been? Cling to me closer, Till the pain that is purer Hath banish'd the grosser. That was born in a dream, love, Little fingers that feel For their home on my breast, Little lips that appeal For their nurture, their rest! Why, why dost thou weep, dear? Nay, stifle thy cries, Till the dew of thy sleep, dear, Lies soft on thine eyes. * By permission of The Macmillan Company. |