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71
THE BLOW
(The true story of an ancient house)
I struck my dear son; I, his sire,
An idiot made him in my ire;
I hear him mumble in the sun,
And see him listless walk and run.
An idiot made him in my ire;
I hear him mumble in the sun,
And see him listless walk and run.
If I by penance might atone,
And kneeling wear away the stone!
If I might hope by prayer or fast
To absolve me of my sin at last!
And kneeling wear away the stone!
If I might hope by prayer or fast
To absolve me of my sin at last!
Can any fast or penance heal
The stare thy father's hand did deal?
What withering vigil can restore
Thy happy laughter as of yore?
The stare thy father's hand did deal?
What withering vigil can restore
Thy happy laughter as of yore?
72
Thy mother of thy daftness died:
She could not bear thee at her side;
Thy vacant eyes became her doom,
Thy jargon laid her in the tomb.
She could not bear thee at her side;
Thy vacant eyes became her doom,
Thy jargon laid her in the tomb.
See at my side he loves to stand,
He puts into my own his hand;
And at my knees his favourite place;
God! how he smiles into my face!
He puts into my own his hand;
And at my knees his favourite place;
God! how he smiles into my face!
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