144 THE GIPSY MOTHER.
Masses rich of raven hair Curtain o er thy forehead rare, Thou It be missed amid their glee, Wherefore stay st thou ? Ah ! I see
On a babe thy dark eye resting, Closely in thy bosom nesting, And t is sweeter far I know, Than at proudest feast to glow, Full contentment to dispense Thus to helpless innocence.
Doth the presence of thy child Make thy flashing glance so mild ? Thou, who with thy vagrant race Reared mid tricks and follies base, Ne er hast seen a heavenly ray Guiding toward the better way ? Feel st thou now some latent thrill, Sorrowing o er a life of ill ? Some incitement pure and good, Dim, and faintly understood ? Stranger ! t is the prompting high Of a mother s ministry, Yield to that transforming love, May it lead thy soul above.
Dost thou muse with downcast eye On thine infant s destiny ? Alien birth, and comrades vile, Harsh control, or hateful wile,
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