 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
153
THE WIDOW'S LULLABY.
Ah! slumber on, my darling boy,
Nor send the blissful dream away,
Which makes the smile of conscious joy
Across thy beauteous features play.
Nor send the blissful dream away,
Which makes the smile of conscious joy
Across thy beauteous features play.
Thou think'st, perhaps, thy sire is here,
And clasps thee in a fond embrace!
Thou know'st not 't is thy mother's tear,
So warm upon thy dimpled face!
And clasps thee in a fond embrace!
Thou know'st not 't is thy mother's tear,
So warm upon thy dimpled face!
Thou hast not learned how still and cold,
The arms where thou believ'st thou art;
Nor dost thou know that mine infold
An orphan near a widow's heart!
The arms where thou believ'st thou art;
Nor dost thou know that mine infold
An orphan near a widow's heart!
And, shouldst thou at this moment wake,
I know what name thou 'dst lisp the first;
To hear it called in vain, would make
This aching, swelling heart to burst!
I know what name thou 'dst lisp the first;
To hear it called in vain, would make
This aching, swelling heart to burst!
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |