TO MY FIRST-BORN by EMMA CATHERINE (MANLY) EMBURY

My own, my child, with strange delight I look upon thy face,
And press thee to my throbbing heart in a mother's fond embrace;
Each breath that stirs thy little frame can a thrill of joy impart,
And the clasp of thy tiny hand is felt like a pulse within my heart.
Thy little life lies but within the compass of a dream,
And yet how changed does every scene of my existence seem!
For over e'en its dreariest path in freshening gushes roll
Feelings that long, like hidden springs, slept darkly in my soul.

My own, my child, what magic power is in that simple word!
The very depths of tenderness by its sweet sound are stirred,
And, like Bethesda's heaven-blessed pool, give out a healing power;
For how can sorrow dwell with thee, fair creature of an hour?
Though from my breast had died away each spark of hope's pure flame,
Though pain and anguish wrung my heart as erst they racked my frame,
Yet would each pang seem light compared with the deep rapturous glow
That thrilled each nerve when first I gazed upon thy baby brow.

My own, my child, fain would I draw the shadowy veil that shrouds
The future from my view, with all its sunshine and its clouds,
To learn what storms must gather yet around thy sinless head,
And gaze upon the varied path which thou through life must tread.
It may not be! no human skill these mysteries may divine,
The God who led my erring steps will surely watch o'er thine;
Enough if to thy mother's hand the blessed power be given,
To shield thy heart from passion's strife and fix its hope on Heaven.

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