Poems (Procter)/The Cradle-Song of the Poor

by Adelaide Anne Procter

THE CRADLE-SONG OF THE POOR.

USH! I cannot bear to see thee
 Stretch thy tiny hands in vain;
Dear, I have no bread to give thee,
 Nothing, child, to ease thy pain!
When God sent thee first to bless me,
 Proud, and thankful too, was I;
Now, my darling, I, thy mother,
 Almost long to see thee die.
   Sleep, my darling, thou art weary;
   God is good, but life is dreary.

I have watched thy beauty fading,
 And thy strength sink day by day,
Soon, I know, will Want and Fever
 Take thy little life away.
Famine makes thy father reckless,
 Hope has left both him and me;
We could suffer all, my baby,
 Had we but a crust for thee.
   Sleep, my darling, thou art weary;
   God is good, but life is dreary.

Better thou shouldst perish early,
 Starve so soon, my darling one,
Than in helpless sin and sorrow
 Vainly live as I have done.
Better that thy angel spirit
 With my joy, my peace, were flown,
Than thy heart grew cold and careless,
 Reckless, hopeless, like my own.
   Sleep, my darling, thou art weary;
   God is good, but life is dreary.

I am wasted, dear, with hunger,
 And my brain is all opprest,
I have scarcely strength to press thee,
 Wan and feeble, to my breast.
Patience, baby, God will help us,
 Death will come to thee and me,
He will take us to his heaven,
 Where no want or pain can be.
   Sleep, my darling, thou art weary;
   God is good, but life is dreary.

Such the plaint that, late and early,
 Did we listen, we might hear
Close beside us,—but the thunder
 Of a city dulls our ear.
Every heart, as God's bright angel,
 Can bid one such sorrow cease;
God has glory when his children
 Bring his poor ones joy and peace!
   Listen, nearer while she sings
   Sounds the fluttering of wings!