The Mother
Little sufferer—all on fire!
All’s to him so trying!
On my shoulder lean thy head,
On my bosom lying!
I will walk about with thee,
Sleep, my own sweet dearie.
Shall I tell a little tale?
“Once there lived a fairy”—
No? Thee likes not silly tales?
P’r’aps a song will take thee!
“Pine-wood rustling dark and dank,
Big fox, wee fox, wakes he.
In the dark pine-wood will I——”
Is my own pet sleeping?
“Gather blackberries for thee
Brimful baskets heaping.
In the dark pine-wood will I——”
Hush! he fast is sleeping.
Open wide his feverish lips,
Like a wee bird, keeping.
“In the dark pine-wood will I,”
Walks the mother, singing—
Till the long dark night declines,
Back the day-dawn bringing.
Singing—while her weary arms
With dull pain are tingling—
Walks the mother; with her sighs
Frequent tears are mingling;
And scarce stirs the restless child,
Tossing in its fever,
Ere again that song resounds,
Soft and low as ever.
With thy scythe depart, O Death,
Spare the tender blossom!
Fierce the fight ere she will yield
Baby from her bosom.
With her whole soul will she shield,
E’en though sore affrighted,
That mysterious flame of life
Which from her was lighted,
For scarce rose that little flame,
Ere to her revealed was
What of love,—of wondrous power,—
In her breast concealed was.