21
With trembling hands and fevered head,
I scarce can give thee daily bread.
Of earthly joys which poets sing,—
The bliss of life's first opening spring,
Thou ne'er hast known. Thy joyless days
Have ne'er been cheered by childish plays;
And cares which childhood should not know
Have charged thy earliest hours with woe,
Which steals away thy life's first bloom,
And soon will bring thee to the tomb.
How many bitter tears I shed
Beside thy hard, uneasy bed!
And when death's hand has eased thy pain,
No other wish shall I retain,
Than that my call may soon be given,
To join thy guiltless soul in heaven.
I scarce can give thee daily bread.
Of earthly joys which poets sing,—
The bliss of life's first opening spring,
Thou ne'er hast known. Thy joyless days
Have ne'er been cheered by childish plays;
And cares which childhood should not know
Have charged thy earliest hours with woe,
Which steals away thy life's first bloom,
And soon will bring thee to the tomb.
How many bitter tears I shed
Beside thy hard, uneasy bed!
And when death's hand has eased thy pain,
No other wish shall I retain,
Than that my call may soon be given,
To join thy guiltless soul in heaven.
