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Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's
sleeping In her low grave of shame and infamy !
Sleep, baby mine-To-morrow I must leave thee,
And I would snatch an interval of rest : Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave
thee, For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast.
ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A.
On seeing Engravings from his Designs.
Mighty magician ! who on Torneo's brow,
When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light, That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below; And listen to the distant death-shriek long
From lonely mariner foundering in the deep,
Which rises slowly up the rocky steep,
Or when along the liquid sky