 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
162
MY BABIES.
Twin blossoms in a field of single flowers
Like, yet unlike;—each lovely in itself,
Yet borrowing beauty of its counterpart,—
Such were my babies when I looked on them,
And thus I dream of them,—close linked with thoughts
Of doves, lambs, lilies, and all innocent things.
Like, yet unlike;—each lovely in itself,
Yet borrowing beauty of its counterpart,—
Such were my babies when I looked on them,
And thus I dream of them,—close linked with thoughts
Of doves, lambs, lilies, and all innocent things.
Lucy had laughing eyes, which danced and shone,
Brimming with baby mirth and playfulness,—
And her sweet voice was round and musical
As a young robin's warble, when he first
Learns the full value of the gift of song,
And, swinging on a spray of trembling leaves,
Rocked softly by the sportive morning wind,—
With dewy wing half spread and quivering,
Opens his golden throat, and seems to fling
His soul into his music;—and her laugh,
A baby's laugh,—the gladdest sound on earth,
Was full of summer melody and glee
As the clear tinkle of a rain-born brook
Flowing along among loose pebble-stones,
And through long grass, and over drowning flowers.
Methought her heart was of those happy ones
Elastic, glad and hopeful,—formed to see
Only the sparkles on the cup of life,
Unmindful of the bitter dregs below,—
To sing gay ballads and sweet loving songs,
Which leave no mournful echo in the soul.
Brimming with baby mirth and playfulness,—
And her sweet voice was round and musical
As a young robin's warble, when he first
Learns the full value of the gift of song,
And, swinging on a spray of trembling leaves,
Rocked softly by the sportive morning wind,—
With dewy wing half spread and quivering,
Opens his golden throat, and seems to fling
His soul into his music;—and her laugh,
A baby's laugh,—the gladdest sound on earth,
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As the clear tinkle of a rain-born brook
Flowing along among loose pebble-stones,
And through long grass, and over drowning flowers.
Methought her heart was of those happy ones
Elastic, glad and hopeful,—formed to see
Only the sparkles on the cup of life,
Unmindful of the bitter dregs below,—
To sing gay ballads and sweet loving songs,
Which leave no mournful echo in the soul.
Lizzie was slight and delicate; in her eyes
There shone a light like star-shine after rain,
Dewy and deep and tender; from their depths
Looked out the soul of woman, even then,—
Full of a sweet yet mournful prophecy,
Radiant with smiles, yet ripe for raining tears.
And when she smiled, the dimples came and danced
And deepened in her cheek, and round her lips,
Like whirlpools in deep water. As I gazed
It seemed to me that hers was one of those
Earnest yet delicate natures,—finely turned,—
Fragile, yet strong to suffer and endure,—
Timid and sensitive, and yet sublime
In their impassioned deep intensity,—
Such as God leads through dark and weary ways,
Making them perfect through much suffering.
Here, as has been my habit, I have called
These sweet twin-children mine; but though my soul
Yearns towards them with a love and tenderness
Such as to aching fills a mother's heart,
Thrilling it with a deep delicious pain,—
For her first-born,—still, they are not mine own;—
God gave them to another,—who will smile
And pardon me that my full heart speaks out
And calls them my dear babies,—for they are
By love's sweet spirit of adoption, mine.
She will forgive me, too, if in my dreams,
Lizzie's soft eyes smile oftenest back to mine,
And Lizzie's head lies oftenest on my breast.
Her own heart tells her why, like him of old,
I love not one less, but the other more!
There shone a light like star-shine after rain,
Dewy and deep and tender; from their depths
Looked out the soul of woman, even then,—
Full of a sweet yet mournful prophecy,
Radiant with smiles, yet ripe for raining tears.
And when she smiled, the dimples came and danced
And deepened in her cheek, and round her lips,
Like whirlpools in deep water. As I gazed
It seemed to me that hers was one of those
Earnest yet delicate natures,—finely turned,—
Fragile, yet strong to suffer and endure,—
Timid and sensitive, and yet sublime
In their impassioned deep intensity,—
Such as God leads through dark and weary ways,
Making them perfect through much suffering.
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These sweet twin-children mine; but though my soul
Yearns towards them with a love and tenderness
Such as to aching fills a mother's heart,
Thrilling it with a deep delicious pain,—
For her first-born,—still, they are not mine own;—
God gave them to another,—who will smile
And pardon me that my full heart speaks out
And calls them my dear babies,—for they are
By love's sweet spirit of adoption, mine.
She will forgive me, too, if in my dreams,
Lizzie's soft eyes smile oftenest back to mine,
And Lizzie's head lies oftenest on my breast.
Her own heart tells her why, like him of old,
I love not one less, but the other more!
God bless my babies! I could almost weep
That when they shall have grown to womanhood
Their hearts will shrine no memory of her
Who held them on her bosom for a day
And then departed. This is selfish, weak,—
I will not stain my blessing with these tears;—
Mayhap my arms will circle them again,
And mayhap, never. Let it be or no;
God bless my babies!
That when they shall have grown to womanhood
Their hearts will shrine no memory of her
Who held them on her bosom for a day
And then departed. This is selfish, weak,—
I will not stain my blessing with these tears;—
Mayhap my arms will circle them again,
And mayhap, never. Let it be or no;
God bless my babies!
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |