When in the cradle, sleeping, he's
My lovely little boy -
I view, with fond maternal eyes,
My all that's left of joy.
Softly I steal the rosy kiss,
From lips I hold so dear,
Lest I his visionary bliss
Disturb, and call a tear.
Softly I lay the downy spread,
His little limbs to warm;
Soft smooth the pillow for his head,
Lest aught his beauties harm.
Blest shade of Alone I now look down,
Thy sweet resemblance see!
May never dying laurels crown
His head, and rapture thee.
While I, from summer's roseate bower,
The softest wreaths that bloom,
Garner and cull with love each flower,
To deck thy hallowed tomb!