Softly in the cradle lie,
Frail bud of immortality;
Soon thy blossom may unfold
Fragrant mid the harps of gold.
O, DO NOT WAKE.
[[Listen]]
O, do not wake, sweet little one,
The night is dark and drear;
All that a mother could have done,
Has been perform'd with care.
The pillow's soft on which you rest,
And sweetly you have fed;
Still lean upon your mother's breast
Your weary little head.
O, do not wake, sweet little one,
Nor tremble with alarm;
The Hand unseen you live upon
Preserves you still from harm.
