 | The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems |  |
[It was a picture of much loveliness]
It was a picture of much loveliness—A picture, men would love to look upon,
Tho' seldom so permitted. A sweet child,
That laugh'd in the possession of his prize,
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And nutriment, and life, from a half hid,
And half reveal'd, and delicate, white round,
That seem'd an orb of purity and peace!
Its little lip, and full and glowing cheek
Were of one colour—rich and young and fresh—
And only such, are beautiful! Its eye
Glanced archly on its property—the Imp,
As if it knew such things were not for all!
And then it playfully upturned the dress,
And peep'd beneath, and with its little hands,
Possess'd itself of all, and placed its head
Upon its natural pillow, and look'd up
In that sweet mother's face, and smiled with joy,
And knew not, happy Ignorant! the tears
Upon that mother's cheek, for it, were shed!
| The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems | |