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Lay your cheek on her aching breast,    Little Nell;To you tis a refuge of holy rest,But a dying bird never drooped its crestWith a deadlier pain in its wounded heart;Al! love's sweet links may be torn apart,    Little Nell;The altar may flame with gems and gold,And splendor be bought, and peace be sold,    But is it well,    Little Nell?

Veil her face with your tresses bright,    Little Nell;Hide that vision out of her sight—Those dark dark eyes with their tender light—Uplift your pure face, can it beShe will bid farewell to heaven and thee,    Little Nell?No; your mute lips plead with eloquent power,Her tears fall like a tropic shower;    All is well,    Little Nell.

Close your blue eyes now in sleep,    Little Nell;Her angel smiles to see her weep;