 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
198
AN EVENING SONG.
'Tis wearing late, 'tis wearing late, I hear the vesper bell,
And o'er yon misty hill the sun hath looked a bright farewell;
The bee is in its honey-home, the bird is in its nest,
And every living being yearns for solace and for rest;
The household gathers round the hearth, and loving souls draw near,—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
And o'er yon misty hill the sun hath looked a bright farewell;
The bee is in its honey-home, the bird is in its nest,
And every living being yearns for solace and for rest;
The household gathers round the hearth, and loving souls draw near,—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
It is the hour, the happy hour, when I was wont to be
Hushed to a calm and blessed sleep upon my mother's knee,
While she would sing with voice subdued, and ever tuneful tongue,
Some well-remembered melody, some old and simple song;
And sometimes on my cheek would fall affection's holy tear,—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
Hushed to a calm and blessed sleep upon my mother's knee,
While she would sing with voice subdued, and ever tuneful tongue,
Some well-remembered melody, some old and simple song;
And sometimes on my cheek would fall affection's holy tear,—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
It is the heart-awakening time when breezes rock the rose,
Which drooping folds its vermeil leaves in Nature's soft repose,
And silvery-winged butterflies, in field or garden fair,
Are swinging in their dewy beds by every passing air;
And birds are rocked in cradles green, till morning's hues appear,
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
Which drooping folds its vermeil leaves in Nature's soft repose,
And silvery-winged butterflies, in field or garden fair,
Are swinging in their dewy beds by every passing air;
199
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
The star-engirdled moon looks down, and sees her welcome beam
Rocked on the undulating breast of ocean, lake, and stream;
And mariners, who love her light, are rocked by wave and wind,
Pining for home and all its joys which they have left behind,
Till Hope's sweet sunshine comes again their sickening souls to cheer,—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
Rocked on the undulating breast of ocean, lake, and stream;
And mariners, who love her light, are rocked by wave and wind,
Pining for home and all its joys which they have left behind,
Till Hope's sweet sunshine comes again their sickening souls to cheer,—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
Oh! it would be a pleasant thing, had we the will and power,
To change the present for the past, and fly to childhood's hour;
To seek old haunts, to hear old tales, resume our former play,—
To live in joyous innocence but one, one little day—
Oh! that would be a precious pause on life's unknown career—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
To change the present for the past, and fly to childhood's hour;
To seek old haunts, to hear old tales, resume our former play,—
To live in joyous innocence but one, one little day—
Oh! that would be a precious pause on life's unknown career—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |