On the Poet’s Son Furubi
Sev’n are the treasures mortals most do prize,
But I regard them not:—
One only jewel could delight mine eyes—
The child that I begot.
My darling boy, who with the morning sun
Began his joyous day;
Nor ever left me, but with child-like fun
Would make me help him play;
Who’d take my hand when eve its shadows spread,
Saying, “I’m sleepy grown;
’Twixt thee and mother I would lay my head:—
Oh! leave me not alone!”
Then with his pretty prattle in mine ears,
I’d lie awake and scan
The good and evil of the coming years,
And see the child a man.
And, as the seaman trusts his bark, I’d trust
That nought could harm the boy:—
Alas! I wist not that the whirling gust
Would shipwreck all my joy!
Then with despairing, helpless hands I grasp’d
The sacred mirror’s147 sphere;
And round my shoulder I my garments clasp’d,
And prayed with many a tear:—
“’Tis yours, great gods, that dwell in heav’n on high,
Great gods of earth! ’tis yours
To heed, or heed not, a poor father’s cry,
Who worships and implores!”
Alas! vain pray’rs, that more no more avail!
He languished day by day,
Till e’en his infant speech began to fail,
And life soon ebbed away.
Stagg’ring with grief I strike my sobbing breast,
And wildly dance and groan:—
Ah! such is life! the child that I caress’d
Far from mine arms hath flown.