SLEEP, dearest, long and sweet,
With smile upon thy brow,
Thy restless, tottering feet,
Are surely weary now,
Trotting about all day
Upon the nursery-floor,
Or happier still to play
Among the wild flowers gay
Beside thy father's door.
Thy little laughing eyes,
How tranquilly they rest,
Thy tiny fingers clasp'd
Upon thy guiltless breast,
While o'er thy placid face
The stealing moonbeams fall,
And with a heaven-taught grace
Thy baby features trace
Upon the shaded wall.
Sleep, dearest! She whose ear
Her nursing-infant's sigh
Hath never waked to hear
When midnight's hush was nigh,
Ne'er felt its balmy kiss
The cradle-care repay,
Hath she not chanced to miss
The deepest, purest bliss
That cheers life's pilgrim-way?
To see each budding power
Thy Maker's goodness bless,
To catch the manna-shower
Of thy full tenderness,
The immortal mind to train—
No more divine employ
Thy mother seeks to gain,
Until her spirit drain
The seraph cup of joy.