A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that when a child smiles in its sleep it is ‘talking with angels.’--LOVER.
A baby was sleeping, Its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman’s dwelling, And she cried, “Dermot, darling, oh come back to me!”
Her beads while she numbered, The baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee: “Oh, blessed be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.
“And while they are keeping Bright watch o’er thy sleeping, Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! And say thou would’st rather They’d watch o’er thy father!-- For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.”
The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe’s father to see; And closely caressing Her child, with a blessing, Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.”
All peacefully gliding, the waters dividing, The indolent batteau moved slowly along; The rowers, light-hearted, from sorrow long parted, Beguiled the dull moments with laughter and song: “Hurrah for the Rapid! that merrily, merrily Gambols and leaps on its tortuous way; Soon, we will enter it, cheerily, cheerily, Pleased with its freshness, and wet with its spray.”
More swiftly careering, the wild Rapid nearing, They dash down the stream like a terrified steed; The surges delight them, no terrors affright them, Their voices keep pace with their quickening speed: “Hurrah for the Rapid! that merrily, merrily Shivers its arrows against us in play; Now we have entered it, cheerily, cheerily, Our spirits as light as its feathery spray.”
Fast downward they’re dashing, each fearless eye flashing, Though danger awaits them on every side; Yon rock--see it frowning! they strike--they are drowning! But downward they speed with the merciless tide. No voice cheers the Rapid, that angrily, angrily Shivers their bark in its maddening play; Gaily they entered it--heedlessly, recklessly, Mingling their lives with its treacherous spray!
In 1843, Livingstone, the celebrated traveller, settled as a missionary in Mabtosa, a beautiful valley in South Africa. Here he met with an adventure which nearly terminated his earthly career.