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by Theodore L. Cuyler

The Empty Little Bed

My little one, my sweet one,
Thy crib is empty now.
Where oft I wiped the dews away

Which gathered on thy brow. No more amidst the sleepless night

I smooth thy pillow fair: ‘Tis smooth, indeed; but rest no more Thy darling features there.

My little one, my sweet one.

Thou canst not come to me; But nearer draws the numbered hour

When I shall go to thee; And thou, perchance, with seraph smile,

And golden harp in hand, May*st come the first to welcome me

To our Immanuel’s land!

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Restored from a scan of the 1868 edition, with page headers and numbers removed and words rejoined across line breaks. Scan-derived text, still being proofread; compare the original scan before quoting.