196
TO ELEANOR MARGARET.
AGED 7 WEEKS.
WEET Baby! thou art slumberingUpon thy mother's knee,
Unconscious still of all the love
That ceaseless girdles thee.
Thou know'st not yet the lips that oft
Thy soft cheek fondly press,
Nor all the untiring care that tends
Thy feeble helplessness.
I scarce know wherefore, but it seems
A solemn thing to me,
To watch a sleeping infant's brow,
From every passion free:
To mark the dark-fringed lids that touch
That cheek so pure and fair,
The soft-drawn breath, the little hands,
Folded as if in prayer.
A solemn thing to me,
To watch a sleeping infant's brow,
From every passion free:
To mark the dark-fringed lids that touch
That cheek so pure and fair,
The soft-drawn breath, the little hands,
Folded as if in prayer.
Oh surely, something not of earth,
The mournful beauty seems
Of that calm brow, where still undimmed
Baptismal water gleams.
The mournful beauty seems
Of that calm brow, where still undimmed
Baptismal water gleams.
