And still beside his cradle
  She sang the same low hymn,
Till he smiled, as he was sleeping,
  At angel fancies dim.

Years passed.—­The helpless infant
  Was now a happy boy;
And often rang his laughter,
  In notes of heartfelt joy.

Upon his mother’s bosom
  I saw the child again;
And his little head was drooping
  In weakness and in pain.

Back from his marble forehead
  The hair streamed, golden bright;
But yet his dark eye sparkled
  With more than mortal light.

And suddenly he whispered,
  “What music sweet I hear! 
’Tis not the song you used to sing
  At night, O mother dear!

“But sweeter far, and softer,
  Than notes you ever sung;
It is as if a silver bell
  Its pleasant chimings rung.

“It tells of rest, dear mother,
  Of slumber calm and deep;
And I am worn and weary,
  And fain ’would sink to sleep.

“Darkness is closing round me—­
  You’re fading from my sight—­
I hear it still!—­dear mother,
  Kiss me once more—­good-night!”

He slept; but angel voices
  Had sung his lullaby;
And sweet shall be his waking
  In our Father’s home on high!

[Illustration]