Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll
       &nbspWhich makes the present (while the flash doth last)
       &nbspSeem a mere semblance of some unknown past,
Mixed with such feelings, as perplex the soul
Self-questioned in her sleep; and some have said
       &nbspWe liv'd, ere yet this robe of flesh we wore.
       &nbspO my sweet baby! when I reach my door,
If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead,
(As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear)
I think that I should struggle to believe
       &nbspThou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere
Sentenc'd for some more venial crime to grieve;
Did'st scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve,
       &nbspWhile we wept idly o'er thy little bier!