Sleep, Baby, sleep; we will not weep,
Nor moan or murmur make;
But O! how deep the dreamless sleep!
Would God she might awake.
Asleep? awake! the Shepherd takes
His little lamb above;
And where she wakes the morning breaks
In everlasting love.
. . . . . . . . . .
But I cannot feel that she is gone
So far, so far away;
For her little heart close to my own
Keeps beating day by day.
WHERE THERE IS NO MORE PAIN.
The sharpest pang, the tenderest tear,
Not yet are known to thee,
Unless thy heart has learned how dear
A little grave can be.
A little grave—but O, how wide
The room it left for grief!
A grief which, like the ebbing tide,
Returns without relief.
Dear child! by death made doubly dear,
God grant it may not be
That thou in heaven should’st ever hear
How much we mourn for thee.
One after one the seasons wane,—
Our loss, it grows not less;
Time’s balm is vain to heal the pain
Of such a loneliness.
O little grave, that darkened so
The path by Sorrow trod,
Sometimes the sunset’s golden glow
Rests on thy daisied sod;—
And then we feel that God is good,
And we take heart again,
Assured ’twill all be understood
Where there is no more pain.