For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MY DAUGHTER'S LULLABY.
Tune—"The Sunset Tree."
| Come! Come! Come! Come to thy Mother's breast! The day begins to close: And the bright, but fading west Invites thee to repose. The frolic and the fun Of thy childish sports are o'er: But, with to-morrow's sun, To be renewed once more. Come! Come! Come! Come to thy Mother's breast! The day begins to close: And the bright, but fading west Invites thee to repose. Sweet! Sweet! Sweet! Sweet on thy Mother's knee! To con thine evening prayer, To him who watches thee With a Father's tender care. For parents and for friends Then breathe thy simple vow; And when life's evening ends, Be innocent as now. Come! Come! Come! Come to thy Mother's breast! The day begins to close: And the darkening of the west Invites thee to repose. Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! Sleep till the morning beams! My song is in thine ear, To mingle with thy dreams, And to tell thee I am near. Bright be thy dreams, my child! Bright as thy waking eyes, As the morning beaming mild, Or the hope that never dies. Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! Sleep on thy Mother's breast! Thine eyes begin to close; And she that loves thee best Has lulled thee to repose. |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
Troy, June, 1835.