Play on thy mothers bosom,
babe, for in that holy isle
The error cannot find thee yet,
the grieving, nor the guile;
Held in thy mothers arms
above lifes dark and troubled wave,
Thou lookest with thy fearless smile
upon the floating grave.
Play, loveliest innocence!-Thee
yet Arcadia circles round,
A charmed power for thee has set
the lists of fairy ground;
Each gleesome impulse Nature now
can sanction and befriend,
Nor to that willing heart as yet
the duty and the end.
Play, for the haggard labor soon
will come to seize its prey.
Alas! when duty grows thy law, enjoyment
fades away!
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