That he must preach the coming Christ, The Saviour yet to die, And men would scoff and hate his name And pass his warnings by; That violence in all the earth Would run its riot free, Until the storm and cyclone came,— Avenging powers to be. And when the birds of morning sang The chorus of the groves, And baby Noah cooed and laughed To see the bright-winged doves, He knew not that on Ararat The other side the Flood, He would send forth a bird like that To bring him tidings good. So we, who shield our little ones And guide their baby feet, Know not the bitter that may come, Or snares hid in the sweet. We hold their hands and kiss their lips, We wrap them in our love; And yet a little while and then Who’ll guide them when they rove? Lord Jesus, Saviour of the lambs, Bless Thou these little ones; Teach us, O Lord, that _we_ may teach Thy daughters and Thy sons; That we may right examples set, In pleasure or in straits; That they may in our footsteps go And enter Pearly Gates. LULLABY OF THE OCEAN Rest, darling, rest, On Ocean’s breast, Millions of star-worlds are mirrored to-night Till the great deep is all sparkling with light; O the blue sea is a glorious sight, Rocking my baby till morning shines bright! Rest, baby, rest, On the sea’s breast; Beautiful Deep, Rock us to sleep! When the sea roars, And the storm pours, And the great billows so fearfully reel, And the loud thunders burst peal upon peal, Jesus, our Lord, lays His hand on the wheel, Then the great waves come sobbing and kneel. Rest, baby, rest, On the sea’s breast; Beautiful Deep, Rock us to sleep! KEEP WARM THE BABY’S FEET O mother of the darling sweet, Keep warm, keep warm the baby’s feet! Would you make strong the tiny form, Against disease, against the storm, Then keep the precious feet most warm! Countless little graves now hold The tiny form within their fold, Because in life their feet were cold. Then, mother of the darling sweet, Keep warm, keep warm the baby’s feet! LULLABY OF THE FOREST Sweet is summer’s breeze Through the leafy trees, Where the honeysuckles grow, And the violets below Open wide their bright blue eyes, Looking towards the sunny skies. Sleep, while gentle south winds blow Over blossoms white as snow. Now the sunset bird By his trill has stirred All the evening songsters near; What a warbling choir is here! And the chorus “Whippoorwill” Calls from every vine-clad hill. Sleep, while all the birdies sing Praises to our Saviour King.