Sleeping Child (Lydia Sigourney)

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.