 | The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems |  |
[Last night, the moon shone suddenly in streams]
Last night, the moon shone suddenly in streams
Upon my pillow, and my little child,
Who lay, like Innocence, upon my arm,
Turn'd, discontentedly, beneath the glare,
And her sweet violet eye-lids, half unclosed—
'Till I, with cautious hand, removed her face,
And press'd her to my bosom, and she sunk,
Into a breathing slumber—but her voice,
As if her sense were conscious of my care,
Whispered most audibly, yet faintly too,
‘Father’—in her half broken modes of speech!
Upon my pillow, and my little child,
Who lay, like Innocence, upon my arm,
Turn'd, discontentedly, beneath the glare,
And her sweet violet eye-lids, half unclosed—
'Till I, with cautious hand, removed her face,
And press'd her to my bosom, and she sunk,
Into a breathing slumber—but her voice,
As if her sense were conscious of my care,
Whispered most audibly, yet faintly too,
‘Father’—in her half broken modes of speech!
Kind spirits! but it was the sweetest sound,
That ever took my sad heart by surprise—
And, tho' ashamed of such unmanliness,
I felt a lurking weakness in my eye,
And press'd her closer to my breast again.
That ever took my sad heart by surprise—
And, tho' ashamed of such unmanliness,
I felt a lurking weakness in my eye,
And press'd her closer to my breast again.
| The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems | |