Baby mine—thou sleepest
In thy long white shroud,
While thy mother keepest
Watch the while, and weepest
Low awhile, till memories crowd,
And her grief will cry aloud;
Yet thou stirrest ne'er the more,
Still thou sleepest as before.

Thy father, he retumeth,
My babe, what shall I say?
Look up! thy father moumeth
His absence, while he burneth
To sport him in thine infant play;
Wake, baby mine; this voiceless clay
I cannot offer him for thee,
The babе he left so full of glee!

“Wherе hast thou laid my darling one,
My beautiful?“ he’ll cry,
"Where hath our gentle angel gone?”
How can I see him thus, alone?
I dare not meet thy father’s eye;
O death! I loved too trustfully!
O life! I knew not of love’s store,
I thought not I could love thee more!
Wake up! this is not death!
Thou wert so full of glee,
I cannot think, for all it saith,
Such love can hang upon a breath;
Thou art too beautiful to be
By ruthless spoiler snatched from me!
Thy father cometh! wake, my child!
Look as when last on him thou smiled.

Vain, vain deceit of grief!
Thou wilt no more revive;
Vain show of unbelief,
Vain hope, too blind and brief!
Come, my beloved, look our last,
The bitterness of death is past;
Thou wak’st again no more to me,
But I, my babe, shall wake with thee.