  My child—my first-born! Oh, I weep To think of thee—thy bitter lot! The fair fond babe that strives to creep Unto the breast where thou art not, Awakes a piercing pang within, And calls to mind thy heavy wrong. Alas! I weep not for my sin— To thy dark lot these tears belong. Thy little arms stretch forth in vain To meet a mother's fond embrace; Alas! in weariness or pain, Thou gazest on a hireling's face. I left thee in thy rosy sleep— I dared not then kneel down to bless; Now—now, albeit thou may'st weep, Thou canst not to my bosom press. My child! though beauty tint thy cheek, A deeper dye its bloom will claim, When lips all pitiless shall speak Thy mournful legacy of shame. Perchance, when love shall gently steal To thy young breast all pure as snow, This cruel thought shall wreck thy weal, The mother's guilt doth lurk below. J. D. |
|
