Lullaby baby--let him not wake! Soon shall the bubble of infancy break; Life, with its terrors and fears, shall surround him, Evil and Good with strange problems confound him, And, as the charmed bird to the serpent is drawn, The demons of hell, from his proudest position, Shall drag down his soul to the depths of perdition, Till he bitterly curses the day he was born! The Cradle or Coffin, the blanket or pall-- O, which brings a blessing of peace unto all? How still is the Coffin! No undulant motion; Becalmed like a boat on the breast of the ocean. And there lies the child, with his half-curtained eyes, While his mother stands near him, her love-watch still keeping, And kisses his pale lips with wailing and weeping, Till her anguish is dumb, or can speak but in sighs. He needs not a lullaby now for his rest; The fledgling has fluttered, and flown from his nest. He starts not, he breathes not, he knows no awaking, Though sad eyes are weeping and fond hearts are breaking. O, God of all mercy, how strange are thy ways! Yet know, thou fond mother, beyond thy perceiving, The angels who took him are tenderly weaving His vestments of beauty, his garments of praise. O, call him not back to earth’s weariness now, For blossoms unfading encircle his brow; From glory to glory forever ascending, His soul with the soul of the Infinite blending, Great luminous truths on his being shall dawn. With no doubts to distract him, or stay his endeavor, He shall bless in his progress, forever and ever, The day that his soul to the Kingdom was born. The Cradle or Coffin, the robe or the shroud, Of which shall a mortal most truly be proud? The Cradle or Coffin, the blanket or pall, O, which brings a blessing of peace unto all? The Cradle or Coffin, both places of rest-- Tell us, O mortals, which like ye the best? THE STREETS OF BALTIMORE.