The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard With a Memoir by Blanchard Jerrold |
 | I. |
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ON THE SICKNESS OF A CHILD.
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| II. |
 | The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard |  |
172
ON THE SICKNESS OF A CHILD.
A chilling fear pervades my breast
For thee, my stricken child!
The hope within me is repressed,
For death looks through my dream of rest,
With aspect wan and wild.
For thee, my stricken child!
The hope within me is repressed,
For death looks through my dream of rest,
With aspect wan and wild.
A gloomy and a gathering fear,
A thought untold and deep,
My eyes perchance have scarce a tear,
But there are scenes full frequent here
That teach the heart to weep.
A thought untold and deep,
My eyes perchance have scarce a tear,
But there are scenes full frequent here
That teach the heart to weep.
And mine hath wept, my blighted boy;
It weeps and trembles now,
To think how frail a thing is Joy,
When darkening doubts so soon destroy
The graces of its brow.
It weeps and trembles now,
To think how frail a thing is Joy,
When darkening doubts so soon destroy
The graces of its brow.
Our hopes should have but humble wings,
When wealth must still be sought
In outward and unholy things,
Remote from the sublimer springs
Of feeling and of thought.
When wealth must still be sought
In outward and unholy things,
Remote from the sublimer springs
Of feeling and of thought.
173
Spectre of Pride, art thou my own,
My little laughing child?
Whose voice was as a wakening tone,
That might have into music grown,
And made my spirit mild:
My little laughing child?
Whose voice was as a wakening tone,
That might have into music grown,
And made my spirit mild:
Teaching my step once more to wind
Through childhood's grassy way,
And bringing back my infant mind,
When life was a delight refined,
And time kept holiday.
Through childhood's grassy way,
And bringing back my infant mind,
When life was a delight refined,
And time kept holiday.
Yes, yes, thou art my own, although
Thy song be tuned to sighs;
Thy dimples made to cradle woe,
Thy cheek's fair sunshine changed to snow,
And love hath left thine eyes.
Thy song be tuned to sighs;
Thy dimples made to cradle woe,
Thy cheek's fair sunshine changed to snow,
And love hath left thine eyes.
Oh, yes, thou art my own—the leaf,
The budding of my tree;
A green delight, a blossom brief,
Whose promised glory ends in grief,
Like things that fade and flee.
The budding of my tree;
A green delight, a blossom brief,
Whose promised glory ends in grief,
Like things that fade and flee.
A harmony within my ears,
A brightness round my brow,
A growing warmth through wintry years.
A star above my tide of tears—
All these to me wert thou!
A brightness round my brow,
A growing warmth through wintry years.
A star above my tide of tears—
All these to me wert thou!
174
I gaze around the freshened earth
Which spring hath made so fair;
I hear the lark-voiced morning's mirth;
And then I look eside my hearth,
And find a winter there.
Which spring hath made so fair;
I hear the lark-voiced morning's mirth;
And then I look eside my hearth,
And find a winter there.
| The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard | |