Words for the Hour/Maud
MAUD.
Baby with the hat and plume,And the scarlet cloak so fine,Come where thou hast rest and room, Little Baby mine.
Whence those eyes so crystal clear?Whence those curls so silky soft?Thou art Mother's darling dear, I have told thee oft.
I have told thee many times,And repeat it yet again,Wreathing thee about with rhymes, Like a flowery chain;
Rhymes that sever and uniteAs the blossom fetters do,As the Mother's weary night Happy days renew.
Like a silvery vision thou,Twinkling, as a distant star,And the lustre on thy brow Shineth from afar.
Like a sunbeam in the room,Creeping near thy mother's heartShade of discontent or gloom Comes not where thou art.
Could I paint thee with a word,Pattern thee in dainty phrase,Thou transfigured humming-bird, Gem with spirit-blaze!
Like a gracious prophecySped where darkling caverns yawn,Like a cheerless winter sea Flushed with crimson dawn;
Thine unwonted coming broughtMore than Nature's rapture-right;From the depth of darkness, taught God could bring the light—
Fate that visits us and grieves,Parts from us, love-reconciled,And the wrack of sorrow leaves The glory of the child.
PARTING FROM BABY.
The bud's mysterious beautyThe flower doth seem to lose,The tender springtide greennessThe ripening sun must use;For fruits of nobler daringFall blossoms of the heart,And thou must change, my Baby,All perfect as thou art.
What ghosts of bitter FancyMy child has chased away;First with her helpless pleading,Then with her fairy play;A child of consolationWhose presence fair and pure,Made in these months of nursingSo much of heav'n secure.
But I must lose thee, Baby,As sprite is lost in soul,As drops that glitter, singly,Lie gleamless in their whole—Life waits to take thy measureOf bosom and of brain,Fits for thy tiny musclesThe aye-increasing strain.
Thy sins that are so prettyMust give sad virtues place,And many a weary errandRestrain thy wanton grace;Till, for a ruder harvest,Thy charms shall ripened be,And Baby, grown a WomanIs wooed away from me.
Oh! think of me, my darling,With thine own child at thy breast;How soft I soothed thy wailing,How jealous, watched thy rest,—And read these foolish versesThat keep the mother's eyeFrom the small empty cradleWhere Baby's wont to lie.
BABY'S RETURN.
Welcome again to thy father's roof—Thou dreamer of innocent dreams!Flower of pure and constant breath,Shadow of sunniest gleams!
With the eyes that speak for the untried lips,And the little, stammering tongue,And the arms, like an amulet of price,O'er the Mother's shoulders flung;
And the curls that ring, like silver bells,With the voice's silvery chime,Each counted and combed, none broken yetIn the weary tangle of time.********Thy beauty shall train its blossom wreathO'er the homely fetters of care,While the household angels that cling round thy pathShall lighten the burthen of prayer.