THE mother yields her little babe to sleep Upon her tender breast, And singing still a lullaby, Hushes its heart to rest: "O sleep in peace upon my bosom, And sweetly may your small dreams blossom; And from the fears that made me weep you, And from all pains, as soft you sleep you, The angels lightly guard and keep you, And hold you blest! "Your mother, dear, is often full of fear, As the moments run; Her love entwines so close, ah dear,-- Dearest little one. Her song is in its music weeping To think of death and its dark keeping, That yet might turn those red cheeks white,-- Life's rose, that grows so in her sight,-- And your bright eyes, like morning light, Dearest little one!" |