Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Mother's Love

Mother's Love.

A Popular Legend.

Faint and listless in its cradle Lies the babe, nor sleeps a wink,Will not bear to eat a morsel, Will not ope its lips to drink.

Ah! its mother is departed, And the lips it loved are still,Lips that sung it into slumber, Numb the breast it seeks and chill.

Yesterday the gloomy bearers Carried forth her bier from home;Now the unthinking weeper's finger Beckons one who may not come.

And the hour of dusk is coining, Yet no more the babe can sleep;By the door, with soundless gliding, Lo! a woman's form doth sweep.

Waving white, a gauzy mantle Falls the silent one to hide;Sure she once hath known the chamber, Now she's by the cradle's side.

There she rocks the child to slumber, Singing low no mortal tone;Thrice she kissed and thrice she crossed it, Bent to bless it and was gone.

Seven days in dusky gloaming Came that silent one again,Stilled the child's distress and weeping, Lulled with song its waking pain.

When the eighth grey eve was falling, Still and mute the child was found;Snowy white and crimson roses Had its cradle decked around.

In the weird night, dumb with sorrow, Bear they off the babe to rest,To her new-made grave, and lay it Close beside its mother's breast.