To My Child
Child of my heart! My sweet, belov'd First-born!
Thou dove who tidings bring'st of calmer hours!
Thou rainbow who dost shine when all the showers
Are past,—or passing! Rose which hath no thorn,—
No spot, no blemish,—pure, and unforlorn!
Untouched, untainted! O, my Flower of flowers!
More welcome than to bees are summer bowers,
To stranded seamen life-assuring morn!
Welcome,—a thousand welcomes! Care, who clings
Round all, seems loosening now its serpent fold:
New hope springs upward; and the bright World seems
Cast back into a youth of endless springs!
Sweet mother, is it so?—or, grow I old
Bewildered in divine Elysian dreams?
Thou dove who tidings bring'st of calmer hours!
Thou rainbow who dost shine when all the showers
Are past,—or passing! Rose which hath no thorn,—
No spot, no blemish,—pure, and unforlorn!
Untouched, untainted! O, my Flower of flowers!
More welcome than to bees are summer bowers,
To stranded seamen life-assuring morn!
Welcome,—a thousand welcomes! Care, who clings
Round all, seems loosening now its serpent fold:
New hope springs upward; and the bright World seems
Cast back into a youth of endless springs!
Sweet mother, is it so?—or, grow I old
Bewildered in divine Elysian dreams?
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