Ere that pale lip is blanch'd with care,
Or from those eyes shoot fierce despair,
Would I could wake thy untuned ear,
And gust it with a father's prayer.
But little reck'st thou, oh my child!
Of travail on life's thorny wild!
Of all the dangers, all the woes,
Each tottering footstep which inclose;
Ah, little reck'st thou of the scene
So darkly wrought, that spreads between
The little all we here can find,
And the dark mystic sphere behind!
Little reck'st thou, my earliest born,
Of clouds which gather round thy morn,
Of acts to lure thy soul astray,
Of snares that intersect thy way,
Of secret foes, of friends untrue,
Of fiends who stab the hearts they woo-
Little thou reck'st of this sad store-
Would thou might'st never reck them more!
But thou wilt burst this transient sleep,
And thou wilt wake, my babe, to weep;
The tenant of a frail abode,
Thy tears must flow, as mine hath flow'd;
Beguiled by follies every day,
Sorrow must wash the faults away,
And thou may'st wake perchance to prove
The pang of unrequited love.
Unconscious babe, though on that brow
No half-fledged misery nestles now,
Scarce round thy placid lips a smile
Maternal fondness shall beguile
Ere the moist footsteps of a tear
Shail plant their dewy traces there,
And prematurely pave the way
For sorrows of a riper day:
Oh! could a father's prayer repel
The eye's sad grief, the bosom's swell;
Or could a father hope to bear
A darling child's allotted care,
Then thou, my babe, shouldst slumber still,
Exempted from all human ill,
A parent's love thy peace should free,
And ask its wounds again for thee.
Sleep on my child; the slumber brief
Too soon shall melt away to grief,
Too soon the dawn of woe shall break,
And briny rills bedew thy cheek;
Too soon shall sadness quench those eyes,
That breast be agonized with sighs,
And anguish o'er the beams of noon
Lead clouds of care,-ah, much too soon!
Soon will thou reck of cares unknown,
Of wants and sorrows all their own,
Of many a pang, and many a woe,
That thy dear sex alone can know-
Of many an ill, untold, unsung,
That will not-may not find a tongue,
But kept conceal'd without control,
Spread the fell cancers of the soul.
Yet be thy lot, my babe, more bless'd
May joy still animate thy breast;
Still midst thy least propitious days,
Shedding its rich inspiring rays;
A father's heart shall daily bear
Thy name upon its secret prayer,
And as he seeks his last repose,
Thine image ease life's parting throes.
Then hail, sweet miniature of life
Hail to this teeming stage of strife!
Pilgrim of many cares untold!
Lamb of the world's extended fold!
Fountain of hopes and doubts and fears!
Sweet promise of extatic years!
How could I fainly bend the knee,
And turn idolater to thee!
The following Stanzas where addressed by Lord Byron to his Lady a few months before their separation.
There is a mystic thread of life
So dearly wreath'd with mine alone,
That Destiny's relentless knife
At once must sever both or none.
There is a form on which these eyes
Had often gazed with fond delight:
By day that form their joy supplies,
And dreams restore it through the night.
There is a voice whose tones inspire
Such thrills of rapture through my breast;
I would not hear a seraph choir
Unless that voice could join the rest.
There is a face whose blushes tell
Affection's tale upon the cheek;
But pallid at one fond farewell,
Proclaims more love than words can speak.
There is a lip which mine hath press'd,
And none had ever press'd before,
It vowed to make me sweetly bless'd,
And mine-mine only, press it more.
There is a bosom- all my own-
Hath pillow'd oft this aching head;
A mouth which smiles on me alone,
An eye whose tears with mine are shed.
There are two hearts whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet!
That, pulse to pulse responsive still,
That both must heave-or cease to beat.
There are two souls whose equal flow,
In gentle streams so calmly run,
That when they part-they part!-ah, no!
They cannot part-those souls are one.
Fare thee well! and if for ever-
Still for ever, fare thee well-
E'en though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er can'st know again :
Would that breast by thee glanc'd over
Every inmost thought could show !
Then thou would'st at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so-
Though the world for this commend thee-
Though it smile upon the blow,
E'en its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe-
Though my many faults defac'd me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embrac'd me.
To inflict a careless wound!
Yet-oh, yet-thyself deceive not-
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench believe not,
Hearts can thus be torn away;
Still thine own its life retaineth-
Still must mine-though bleeding-beat,
And the undying thought which paineth
Is-that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead:
Both shall live-but every morrow-
Wakes us from a widow'd bed,
And when thou would'st solace gather-
When our child's first accents flow-
Wilt thou teach her to say-" Father?"
Though his care she must forego?
When her little hands shall press thee-
When her lip to thine is prest-
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee-
Think of him thy love hath bless'd.
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st see-
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults-perchance thou knowest,
All my madness-none can know;
All my hopes-where'er thou goest,
Wither-yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now.
But 'tis done-all words are idle-
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.
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