LINES
WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A MOTHER, AT THE BIRTH OF HER FIRST CHILD.
My child! it is my child I hold
With rapture, to my heart:
Nor men's nor angels' tongues have told
The joy these words impart.
With rapture, to my heart:
Nor men's nor angels' tongues have told
The joy these words impart.
A fibre of my heart it seems,
A living thought of bliss,
Sweeter than aught that fancy dreams;
My soul's first-born it is.
A living thought of bliss,
Sweeter than aught that fancy dreams;
My soul's first-born it is.
I hear its little tender sighs;
Its living voice I hear;
It opens now its little eyes:
Surely, some angel 's near.
Its living voice I hear;
It opens now its little eyes:
Surely, some angel 's near.
My baby! round thy precious form
Are my fond arms entwined,—
Thy safe retreat from every storm,
And sorrow's blighting wind.
Are my fond arms entwined,—
Thy safe retreat from every storm,
And sorrow's blighting wind.
