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THE DOOM OF THE PRYNNES.
Only the nightingale from out the wood is coming,
Singing her tender song, as though she wooed the night.
" Sleep, little sister, sleep ! the stars, God's eyes, are beaming
Lovingly o'er the world, as night more darkly falls ;
Shadows that hide from Him are only mortal seeming,
He is awake to hear the feeblest babe that calls.
Sleep, little sister, sleep,
Sleep, sleep!"
And then, o'er all the trouble of the day,
A downy veil of tranquil stillness stole,
And with her arm beneath my head I dreamt
It was God's heart on which I rested, safe.
