IT was her first sweet child, her heart's delight: And, though we all foresaw his early doom, We kept the fearful secret out of sight; We saw the canker, but she kiss'd the bloom. And yet it might not be: we could not brook To vex her happy heart with vague alarms, To blanch with fear her fond intrepid look, Or send a thrill through those encircling arms. She smil'd upon him, waking or at rest: She could not dream her little child would die: She toss'd him fondly with an upward eye: She seem'd as buoyant as a summer spray, That dances with a blossom on its breast, Nor knows how soon it will be borne away. |