3 So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,
Though they bloom and look gay like the rose:
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain;
Time kills them as fast as he goes.
4 Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade:
But gain a good name by well doing my duty;
This will scent, like a rose, when I'm dead.
A CRADLE HYMN.
1 Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.
2 Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,
House and home, thy friends provide;
All without thy care or payment,
All thy wants are well supplied.
3 How much better thou'rt attended
Than the Son of God could be,
When from heaven he descended,
And became a child like thee!
4 Soft and easy in thy cradle:
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,
When his birthplace was a stable,
And his softest bed was hay.
5 Blessed babe! what glorious features,
Spotless fair, divinely bright!
Must he dwell with brutal creatures?
How could angels bear the sight?
6 Was there nothing but a manger
Cursed sinners could afford,
To receive the heavenly Stranger!
Did they thus affront their Lord?
7 Soft, my child, I did not chide thee,
Though my song might sound too hard;
This thy { mother[1] } sits beside thee,
{ nurse that }
And her arms shall be thy guard.