 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
MOTHER AND STEPMOTHER
Oh my baby, my sweet, my Own!
Oh joy, to have one to love like this!
And love like this to be so bestown!
Oh the wonder of it, and bliss!
Look at me, baby, with those deep eyes,
Smile to me, baby, with those soft lips!
Oh, the tremulous thrills that rise
At the fine touch of those finger-tips!
Oh joy, to have one to love like this!
And love like this to be so bestown!
Oh the wonder of it, and bliss!
Look at me, baby, with those deep eyes,
Smile to me, baby, with those soft lips!
Oh, the tremulous thrills that rise
At the fine touch of those finger-tips!
And yet you fill me with fear and awe,
God's little child, that He gave to me
To rear you up in His Love and Law,
For the life that is, and that is to be;
Lo, Heaven is looking out from the blue
And solemn depths of those great eyes;
How shall I keep you pure and true?
How shall I make you good and wise?
God's little child, that He gave to me
To rear you up in His Love and Law,
For the life that is, and that is to be;
Lo, Heaven is looking out from the blue
And solemn depths of those great eyes;
How shall I keep you pure and true?
How shall I make you good and wise?
I promised to mother those babes of his,
And oh, I have tried to pay my vow;
But I did not know what a mother is,
I did not know as I know it now.
I loved them for his sake, and always will;
Poor motherless babes, I love them yet;
But motherless babes they must be still,
For I cannot love them like you, my pet.
And oh, I have tried to pay my vow;
But I did not know what a mother is,
I did not know as I know it now.
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Poor motherless babes, I love them yet;
But motherless babes they must be still,
For I cannot love them like you, my pet.
They're very nice, and they've been so good,
And they really are fond of me, as they say;
But they're not like my blossom of ladyhood,
And they have not their father's gentle way.
No doubt, they take after the mother, and she
Was vulgar—her picture shows that right;
And there's something in them—it is plain to see
They never will grow to be ladies quite.
And they really are fond of me, as they say;
But they're not like my blossom of ladyhood,
And they have not their father's gentle way.
No doubt, they take after the mother, and she
Was vulgar—her picture shows that right;
And there's something in them—it is plain to see
They never will grow to be ladies quite.
Well, yes; she was pretty, and so are they;
She has sandy curls, and she wears a wreath,
And her eyes are meaningless, cold and grey,
And her lips are parted to show her teeth.
She has dumpy hands, but she thinks them fine—
It's all in her picture, baby, dear—
And the painter has hinted a sullen line
Across her brow, with a shade of fear.
She has sandy curls, and she wears a wreath,
And her eyes are meaningless, cold and grey,
And her lips are parted to show her teeth.
She has dumpy hands, but she thinks them fine—
It's all in her picture, baby, dear—
And the painter has hinted a sullen line
Across her brow, with a shade of fear.
I often look at that picture now
Which hangs in the nursery, as it should,
And I watch for the faint line on the brow
When her children are ever in angry mood;
I never have seen it, I'm bound to say,
Though it may come yet, as they grow old;
Still I never have seen it, and never may,—
Yet these things run in the blood, I'm told.
Which hangs in the nursery, as it should,
And I watch for the faint line on the brow
When her children are ever in angry mood;
I never have seen it, I'm bound to say,
Though it may come yet, as they grow old;
Still I never have seen it, and never may,—
Yet these things run in the blood, I'm told.
He does not speak of her much to me,
Though he does to his children, which is right;
I tell him to do it, and sometimes he
Sits by their beds, and talks at night.
For oh, were I taken, my pet, from you,
I should like you to hear of me from your father:—
Should I like him to give you a step-mother too?
Nay, let us die together rather.
Though he does to his children, which is right;
I tell him to do it, and sometimes he
Sits by their beds, and talks at night.
For oh, were I taken, my pet, from you,
I should like you to hear of me from your father:—
Should I like him to give you a step-mother too?
Nay, let us die together rather.
I talk to you, baby, as I can
Unto no other but you, my pet:
There's a nook in my heart which my own good man—
And he's very good—has not been in yet:
It is there where I think of his former wife,
And the picture up in the nursery,
And wonder if they had peace or strife,
And if he could love her as he loves me.
Unto no other but you, my pet:
There's a nook in my heart which my own good man—
And he's very good—has not been in yet:
It is there where I think of his former wife,
And the picture up in the nursery,
And wonder if they had peace or strife,
And if he could love her as he loves me.
O baby! it's hard to fill my post!
But yes! I will love her children more;
They shall not feel that for you they lost
One touch of the love that they had before.
I cannot give them my own baby's part,
That's yours, my darling, whatever befall;
But oh, your coming has filled my heart
More and more with the love of all.
But yes! I will love her children more;
They shall not feel that for you they lost
One touch of the love that they had before.
I cannot give them my own baby's part,
That's yours, my darling, whatever befall;
But oh, your coming has filled my heart
More and more with the love of all.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |