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.” 
