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The cares that fright the smile of sleep,
And slowly steal away our bloom,
The time to mourn, to muse, to weep,
To thee, sweet babe, are yet to come.
Yet who that loves with eye serene
On peace and innocence to look,
Would haste to pierce the sable screen,
That curtains fate's eventful book?
No—let its doubtful page of pains,
In Heaven's decreed oblivion rest;
Nor murmur, while this truth remains,
That what our God ordains, is best.
And though affection's eager hand
Might seek to snatch more joy for thee,
Dear infant, than thy God has plann'd,
For this short life of vanity;
Yet if his love will guide thy ways,
And light devotion's holy fire,
And let thee breathe in Heaven his praise.
What more for thee, can man desire?
