Upon its native pillow dear,
The little slumb’rer finds repose;
His fragrant breath eludes the ear—
A zephyr passing o’er a rose.
Yet soon from that pure spot of rest
(Love’s little throne!) shalt thou be torn;
Time hovers o’er thy downy nest,
To crown thy baby-brow with thorn.
Ah! thoughtless! couldst thou now but see
On what a world thou soon must move,
Or taste the cup prepar’d for thee
Of grief, lost hopes, or widow’d love,
Ne’er from that breast thou’d’st raise thine head,
But thou would’st breathe to Heav’n a pray’r
To let thee, ere thy blossom fade,
In one fond sigh exhale thee there.