SLEEP lies like dew about thee,
The sleep, which God bestows;
Nor pain, nor care, nor sorrow, yet,
Thy peaceful spirit knows:
Washed, from the first transgression,
In that baptismal flood;
God makes thee, His beloved,
Through the Beloved's blood.Sleep sweetly on, and safely,
Mine own baptismal child;
Calm, as the stream in Eden's bower,
While yet Jehovah smiled;
The heavenly Dove hangs o'er thee,
With blessed, brooding wing,
To shelter and to shield thee,
From evil thought and thing.LONDON, August 24, 1841.
Project Canterbury