Bless'd be thy slumbers, little love!
Unconscious of the ills so near;
May no rude noise thy dreams remote,
Or prompt the artless early tear;—
For she who gave thee life is gone,
Whose trust it was thy life to rear,
Now in the cold and mould'ring stone
Calls for that artless early tear.
Sleep on, thou little dreamer! sleep;
For, long as I shall tarry here,
I'll soothe thee; thou shalt never weep,
Tho’ flows for thee the tend'rest tear.
Then be thy gentle visions blest,
Nor e'er thy bosom know that fear,
Which thro’ the night disturbs my rest,
And prompts Affection's trembling tear.