Play on! play on! I am with you there, In the midst of your merry ring; I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, And the rush of the breathless swing. I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall. I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go; For the world, at best, is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, To see the young so gay. TO A SLEEPING BOY. Sleep on! Sleep on! beguiling The hours with happy rest. Sleep!--by that dreamy smiling, I know that thou art blest. Thy mother over thee hath leant To guard thee from annoy, And the angel of the innocent Was in that dream, my boy! The tinting of the summer rose Is on that pillowed cheek, And the quietness of summer thought Has made thy forehead meek. And yet that little ample brow, And arching lip, are fraught With pledges of high manliness, And promises of thought. Thy polished limbs are rounded out As is the Autumn fruit, And full and reedy is the voice That slumber hath made mute. And, looking on thy perfect form-- Hearing thy pleasant tone-- I almost weep for joy, my son, To know thee for my own. Sleep on! thine eye seems looking thro' The half transparent lid, As if its free and radiant glance Impatiently were hid; But ever as I kneel to pray, And in my fulness weep, I thank the Giver of my child For that pure gift of sleep-- I half believe they take thee, then, Back to a better world again. And so, sleep on! If thou hast worn An angel's shining wing, The watch that I have loved to keep Hath been a blessed thing. And if thy spirit hath been here, With spotless thoughts alone-- A mother's silent ministry Is still a holy one; And I will pray that there may be A shining wing in wait for thee. SONNET. WINTER. The frozen ground looks gray. 'Twill shut the snow Out from its bosom, and the flakes will fall Softly and lie upon it. The hushed flow Of the ice-covered waters, and the call Of the cold driver to his oxen slow, And the complaining of the gust, are all That I can hear of music--would that I With the green summer like a leaf might die? So will a man grow gray, and on his head The snow of years lie visibly, and so Will come a frost when his green years have fled, And his chilled pulses sluggishly will flow, And his deep voice be shaken--would that I In the green summer of my youth might die! SONNET.