  How fondly the heart of the mother is stirred, As she bends o’er the cradle where Innocence sleeps, And the sweetest of names and the tenderest word For her little birdling she carefully keeps. How precious its smiles and its cooing to her; And the light of its eye gives her joy anew, And e’en while she sleeps, her fond heart waketh still, Like a list’ning star in Night’s curtain of blue. Her fond, circling arms press it still to her breast, Where lulled by her heart-throb it slumbers again. If aught should awake it, the mother will start From dreaming and patiently comfort it then. How wilt thou reward her, O sweet little babe? How give back the years of her labor and care? How pay for the tears of sweet sympathy shed; The heart’s deepest yearning; the river of prayer? O sweet little babe, learn of Jesus to love; Sing Zion’s sweet songs with thy silvery voice; O then shall the heart of thy mother be glad, And o’er thy existence forever rejoice. endpaper divider |
|
