Forgotten, in a chamber lone,
The hooded Cradle, brown and old,
Began to rock, began to moan,
“Where are the babes I used to hold?”
“To men and women they are grown,
And through the world their way must make.”
The Cradle rocked and made its moan,
“My babes no single step could take!”
“A helmsman one, on wide seas blown,
His sinewy hands the wheel employs.”
The Cradle rocked and made its moan,
“My babes could scarcely grasp their toys.”
“And one, with words of winning tone,
God's shepherd, goes the lost to seek.”
The Cradle rocked and still made moan,
“The babes I held no word could speak!”
“And one, with children of her own,—
Her life is toil and love and prayer!”
The Cradle rocked and still made moan,
“My babes of babes could take no care!”
“Now all that once were mine are flown
But one, that still with me shall bide” —
( The Cradle ceased to rock, to moan ) —
“The sweetest one — the babe who died!”