THE CHILD BALLAD

Dawn, at last the Mother slumbers.

Her child, wide awake, is gazing —

at her feet, Death sits, amazing.

Infant Death, so childlike merely,

on its head a wreath, white, searing,

in its robe a body scrawny,

hands grasp fickle netting, surely,

as for butterfly ensnaring.

And those hands, like sticks unfeeling,

forehead waxy yellowed, tawny,

no eyes, only blue pits, chilling.

“Come along my child, sweet, subtle,

for a moment only, little!

Let us dance, and spin till dizzy

to angelic music, breezy,

like two little doves fly easy.”

““Mummy won’t let me go playing,

for my body’s aching, swaying!””

“Come along my child, sweet, gentle!

With me you can get it over,

let the sickness lose its power,

out, up, to the angels’ choir

you’ll fly on, to heaven higher.”

““Mummy will not let me wander, —

I think she is stirring, yonder.””

“Come along my child, my sweeting!

by the Christ-child sent, I’m waiting,

by his Mother’s grace from Heaven,

just to bring you to them, even

from your Saint a message, softly:

“Bring my little girl, and swiftly!”

““Let’s go, quiet now, — no clatter,

Mummy’s better off till woken!

Burdened though her sleep, and token,

restless slumber, fitful, later

bosom heaving, deeply sighing,

woken, she will burst out crying.””