THE BEREAVED FATHER.
��I HAD a little blossom, its nursing-root was dead. And in my breast I hid it, when its angel mother fled, But at every blast I shudder 'd, and I trembled day and
night, Lest some unseen destroyer my only bud should blight.
Two years of sleepless care, yet of high and sacred joy, Brought forth, in ruddy health, my lovely, blooming boy, With the curls around his head, and the lustre in his eye, And the music on his lip, like a song-bird of the sky.
In wakeful hours I mus'd, and I wish'd, while others sleep, That, for his precious sake, my wealth was broad and deep, So I forc'd my lingering mind for a little while to go, And gather for my son, where the gold and silver grow.
The old nurse lov'd my blooming boy, and round her
neck he clung With his clasping, ivory arms, and his busy, flattering
tongue ;
�� �
