The moon is sinking in the billow,
The night bird's song will shortly cease ;
Thy mothers breast—thy own lov'd pillow,
Woes thee to slumber there in peace.
Come, now the breeze is softer sighing,
And each wild flower hangs its head,
While Angel visitants are hieing
Hitherward to guard thy bed :
Now softly let thy eyelids close,
Sweet be thy spirit's calm repose.

Bright eyes are looking down from heaven—
Holy harps are hymning there,
Though from our arms the loved were riven,
They can't forget to love us here.
One voice, than all the rest seems stronger,
Yet tis sweetest of the choir,
Hark, it joins thy mother's number,
It chants the air we all admire—
Sister, let thy eyelids close,
Sweet be thy spirit's calm repose.