Dear little brother Will!
He has leaped the hedge and rill,--
He has clambered up the hill,
Ere the beaming
Of the rising sun, to sweep
With its golden rays the steep,
Till he's tired, and dropped asleep,
Sweetly dreaming.

See, he threw aside his cap,
And the roses from his lap,
When his eyes were, for the nap,
Slowly closing:
Wit his sunny curls outspread,
On its fragrant mossy bed,
Now his precious infant head
Is reposing.

He is dreaming of his play--
How he rose at break of day,
And he frolicked all the way
On his ramble.
And before his fancy's eye,
He has still the butterfly
Mocking him, where not so high
He could scramble.

In his cheek the dimples dip,
And a smile is on his lip,
While his tender finger-tip