bare
The death-flower white, for baby hands.

Fear not, mine own, the Elf-babes shrill,
Nor Lilith tall, with brow of snow.
They may not haunt thy slumbers still
Where Ganges' sacred waters flow.

Where coral reefs gnaw with white cruel teeth
The yellow surf, and the torn billows seethe--
When shines the Southern Cross o'er placid isles,
The Afric mother sits, and singing, smiles,
Unheeding that a dead world's hidden pain
Beats wildly rhythmic through her pure refrain,
And lingers softly still an echoed sigh
Low in Earth's cradle-song--sweet lullaby.
A warning song of doom--a song of woe,
Of terror wild, she sings, down bending low,
The while bright gleams the Starry Cross above
Yet tells to her no tale of tender love
Of Him who lifteth after-time a cross
That healeth all the wide world's sin and loss.

Ah, linger no longer 'mong blooms of the mangoes,
Nor pluck the bright shells by the low sighing sea,
Swift, swift, through the groves of the palms and acacias
Comes Lilith, the childless one, seeking for thee.
She will bind thee so fast in her yellow-gold hair--
Ah, hasten, my children, of Lilith beware!

Cold, cold are her cheeks as the spray of the wild sea,
Red, red are her lips as the pomegranate's bloom;
Cold, cold are the kisses the phantom will give thee,
Ah, cruel her kisses, that smell of the tomb.
Hist, hist! 'tis the sorceress with yellow-gold hair--
Oh! lullaby, baby--of Lilith beware.

She flies to the jungle, with false tales beguiling,
Ah, hear'st thou her elfin babes scream overhead!
Close, close in her strong arms she bears my babe, smiling;
She hath sucked the soft bloom from the lips of my dead.
Now far speeds the vampire, with yellow-gold hair--
Oh! lullaby, baby--of Lilith beware!

Art frighted, my baby? Nay, then, thy mother
Low singing enfolds thee all safe from the snare;
Afar flit the Elf-babes 'mid gray, misty shadows,
Afar flees the temptress with yellow-gold hair.
Ah, heed not her songs in the still slumbrous air--
Oh! lullaby, baby--of Lilith beware!

When hawthorn-trees sift thick their rifted snow,
The English mother o'er her babe sings low;
Where red the cross burns on the ivied fane,
Unwitting, pagan Lilith lives again--
And softer sings, nor feels t