Rudolphe Louis Nègroz
A happiness complete, without alloy
Of my sad Knowledge, Wisdom's minister.
Do I not know the bitter tinge to Life
Which Fate hath in your chaliced mother-heart
Mixed with maternal sweetness—the sharp knife
That stabs your peace—the cloud that doth impart
A darkness to each day—a child's affliction,
Bounding your every joy with stern restriction?
True, true it is I know your suffering, dear,
And that my knowledge never can attain
To utter understanding nor come near
With Sympathy your heights of holy pain.
Yet to be comforted you'll not refuse,
Knowing your Mother's heart can mine relieve;
So take this comfort: that your son will use
The gifts you gave him homage due to give
Unto your humble greatness—never pray
For richer boon than grace to sow these seeds
Of future fame, to tell a later day
All the eternal splendour of your deeds.
Thus may I crown a life of little worth
With the rich praise of her who gave me birth.
These gifts you gave on God's behalf, I wonder
How they are mine above all my deserving—
My life's path cluttered is with many a blunder
Nor Duty-guided in a course unswerving,
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