Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SICK CHILD, by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SICK CHILD, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Thy fevered arms around me
Last Line: "oh! Not my will but thine."
Subject(s): Children; Sickness; Childhood; Illness


THY fever'd arms around me,
My little, suffering boy --
Tis better thus with thee to watch,
Than share in fashion's joy.

The pale nurse-lamp is waning
Upon the shaded hearth,
And dearer is its light to me
Than the gay flambeau's mirth.

I've lov'd the merry viol
That spurs the dancer's heel,
And those soft tremblings of the lute
O'er summer's eve that steal;

But when hath richest music
Been to my soul so dear,
As that half-broken sob of thine
Which tells that sleep is near?

I knew not half how precious
The cup of life might be,
Till o'er thy cradle bed I knelt,
And learn'd to dream of thee;

Till at the midnight hour I found
Thy head upon my arm,
And saw thy full eye fix'd on mine,
A strong, mysterious charm;

Till at thy first faint lisping
That tear of rapture stole,
Which ever as a pearl had slept
Deep in the secret soul.

A coffin small, and funeral,
With all their sad array,
Gleam as my broken slumbers fleet
On sable wing away.

Rouse, rouse me, ere such visions
My heated brain can sear,
For still my baby's heavy knell
Comes booming o'er my ear.

Cling closer, round my bosom
Thy feeble arms entwine,
And while the life-throb stirs thy heart,
Be as a part of mine.

That start, that cry, that struggle!
My God -- I am but clay,
Have pity on a bruised reed,
Give thy compassions way;

Send forth thy strength to gird me,
Impart a power divine,
To wring out sorrow's dregs, and say
"Oh! not my will but thine."





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