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Two Lullabies
I
- SLEEP, sleep, my little baby dear,
- Thee shall no want or pain come near;
- Sleep softly on thy downy nest,
- Or on this lace veiled mother‐breast.
- Thy cradle is all silken lined,
- Wrought roses on thy curtains twined,
- Warm woolly blankets o’er thee spread,
- And soft white pillows for thy head.
- Much gold those little hands shall hold,
- And wealth about thy life shall fold,
- And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife,
- Nor the low ills of common life.
- These little feet shall never tread
- Except on paths soft‐carpeted,
- And all life’s flowers in wreaths shall twine
- To deck that darling head of thine.
- Thou shalt have overflowing measure
- Of wealth and joy and peace and pleasure,
- And thou shalt be right charitable
- With all the crumbs that leave thy table.
- And thou shalt praise God every day
- For His good gifts that come thy way,
- And again thank Him, and again,
- That thou art not as other men.
- For ’midst thy wealth thou wilt recall—
- ’Tis to God’s grace thou owest it all;
- And when all’s spent that life has given,
- Thou’lt have a golden home in heaven.
II
- Sleep, little baby, sleep,
- Though the wind is cruel and cold,
- And my shawl that I’ve wrapped thee in
- Is old and ragged and thin;
- And my hand is too frozen to hold—
- Yet my bosom’s still warm—so creep
- Close to thy mother, and sleep!
- Sleep, little baby, and rest,
- Though we wander alone through the night,
- And there is no food for me,
- No shelter for me and thee.
- Through the windows red fires shine bright,
- And tables show, heaped with the best—
- But there’s naught for us there—so rest.
- Sleep, you poor little thing!
- Just as pretty and dear
- As any fine lady’s child.
- Oh, but my heart grows wild!—
- Is it worth while to stay here?
- What good thing from life will spring
- For you—you poor little thing?
- Sleep, you poor little thing!
- Mine, my treasure, my own—
- I clasp you, I hold you close,
- My darling, my bird, my rose!
- Rich mothers have hearts like stone,
- Or else some help they would bring
- To you— you poor little thing?
- Sleep, little baby, sleep—
- If some good, rich mother would take
- My dear, I would kiss thee, and then
- Never come near thee again—
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- Not though my heart should break!
- I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake—
- For the river is dark and deep,
- And gives sleep, little baby, sleep!
1887.
