On the bosom of the valley the mist her bed hath made,

And the broad lake lieth sleeping beneath the trees’ deep
shade;

Then sleep, my child—let slumber upon thine eyes be
laid.

When cool night dews are falling, the flowers all sleep
and rest,

And the wild birds, too, are sleeping on the mountain’s
rugged breast ;

Then sleep, my child, my darling, in this thy downy

nest.

Even on the cheek of sorrow the burning tear doth
sleep;

But thy rest is not, my treasure, the rest of such as weep;

_Then sleep, my child, my darling, with slumber calm
and deep.

Yea, sleep the sleep of quietness, dear heart, in joy
divine ;

But the weary sleep of sorrow, oh! may it ne’er be
thine ;

Then sleep, my own, my darling, thou lovely child of
mine.

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