7
Saw you the sad, imploring eye? Its every glance was pain,As if a storm of agony Were sweeping through the brain.
She is a mother, pale with fear, Her boy clings to her side,And in her kirtle vainly tries His trembling form to hide.
He is not hers, although she bore For him a mother's pains;He is not hers, although her blood Is coursing through his veins!
He is not hers, for cruel hands May rudely tear apartThe only wreath of household love That binds her breaking heart.
His love has been a joyous light That o'er her pathway smiled,A fountain gushing ever new, Amid life's desert wild.
His lightest word has been a tone Of music round her heart,Their lives a streamlet blent in one— Oh, Father! must they part?
