SLEEP, dearest, long and sweet,
  With smile upon thy brow,
Thy restless, tottering feet,
  Are surely weary now,
Trotting about all day
  Upon the nursery-floor,
Or happier still to play
Among the wild flowers gay
  Beside thy father's door.

Thy little laughing eyes,
  How tranquilly they rest,
Thy tiny fingers clasp'd
  Upon thy guiltless breast,
 While o'er thy placid face
  The stealing moonbeams fall,
And with a heaven-taught grace
Thy baby features trace
  Upon the shaded wall.

Sleep, dearest! She whose ear
  Her nursing-infant's sigh
Hath never waked to hear
  When midnight's hush was nigh,
Ne'er felt its balmy kiss
  The cradle-care repay,
Hath she not chanced to miss
The deepest, purest bliss
  That cheers life's pilgrim-way?

To see each budding power
  Thy Maker's goodness bless,
To catch the manna-shower
  Of thy full tenderness,
The immortal mind to train—
  No more divine employ
Thy mother seeks to gain,
Until her spirit drain
  The seraph cup of joy.