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265
TO HIS INFANT MARIA.
1792.
Ah! my dear Babe! thou smilest on the tear
That hangs upon thy mother's fading cheek;
Eager, as thou wert wont, her voice to hear—
But her heart swells with grief, too full to speak.
'Tis for thy brothers, in the same cold bed,
She weeps. O'er one the wintry storm hath past:
And there, another rests his little head
Fresh-pillow'd. But they feel not the keen blast!
O'er their pale turf the whistling winds may sweep—
Unconscious of the tempest, they repose:
There, undisturb'd, sweet innocents! they sleep
From human passions free, from human woes.
Yes, dear Maria! they, my babe, are free
From ills that wait, perhaps, in store for thee!
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