As through a valley remote I strayed,
Methought, beside a mouldering temple’s stone,
The tale of whose dark structure was unknown,
I saw the form of Time: his scythe’s huge blade
Lay swathed in the grass, whose gleam was seen
Fearful, as oft the wind, the tussocks green
Moved stirring to and fro: the beam of morn
Cast a dim lustre on his look forlorn;
When touching a responsive instrument,
Stern o’er the chords his furrowed brow he bent:
Meantime a naked boy, with aspect sweet,
Played smiling with the hour-glass at his feet!
Apart from these, and in a verdant glade,
A sleeping infant on the moss was laid,
O’er which a female form her vigils kept,
And watched it, softly-breathing as it slept.
Then I drew nigh, and to my listening ear
Came, stealing soft and slow, this ditty clear:
“Lullaby, sing lullaby,—
Sweetest babe, in safety lie;
I thy mother sit and sing,
Nor hear of Time the hurrying wing.
Here, where innocence reposes,
Fairy sylphs, your sports delay;
Then the breath of morning roses
From its bed of bliss convey.
Lullaby, sing lullaby,—
Sweetest babe, in safety lie;
I thy mother sit and sing,
Nor hear of Time the hurrying wing.”