Who can tell,
Little Nell.

Lay your cheek on her aching breast,
Little Nell;
To you 'tis a refuge of holy rest,
But a dying bird never drooped its crest
With a deadlier pain in its wounded heart;
Ah! love's sweet links may be torn apart,
Little Nell;
The altar may flame with gems and gold,
And splendor be bought, and peace be sold,
But is it well,
Little Nell?

Veil her face with your tresses bright,
Little Nell;
Hide that vision out of her sight--
Those dark dark eyes with their tender light--
Uplift your pure face, can it be
She will bid farewell to heaven and thee,
Little Nell?
No; your mute lips plead with eloquent power,
Her tears fall like a tropic shower;
All is well,
Little Nell.

Close your blue eyes now in sleep,
Little Nell;
Her angel smiles to see her weep;