Sonnets, Lyrics and Translations By the Rev. Charles Turner [i.e. Charles Tennyson] |
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A FATHER TO HIS SICK CHILD ASLEEP. |
 | Sonnets, Lyrics and Translations |  |
97
A FATHER TO HIS SICK CHILD ASLEEP.
How many bitter drops I've shed!
How many more there still may be
Due to thy little aching head
And fierce consuming malady!
Oh! might this tear—this pleading sigh
Reprieve thee, on thy way to die!
How many more there still may be
Due to thy little aching head
And fierce consuming malady!
Oh! might this tear—this pleading sigh
Reprieve thee, on thy way to die!
Thy feeble frame can ne'er withstand
This fever-heat from day to day;
Poor snow-flake! in a glowing hand
That steals thy slight-knit life away;
Though Hope disclaims thy fragile mould;
I would not hear thy death-bell toll'd.
This fever-heat from day to day;
Poor snow-flake! in a glowing hand
That steals thy slight-knit life away;
Though Hope disclaims thy fragile mould;
I would not hear thy death-bell toll'd.
I love thy glossy curls that close
About thy forehead, golden-bright;
Or rest upon the fatal rose
Of thy young cheek, in clusters light;
And those blue orbs, that wake so fair,
They almost bid me not despair.
About thy forehead, golden-bright;
Or rest upon the fatal rose
98
And those blue orbs, that wake so fair,
They almost bid me not despair.
Thy lips, my child, recall the smile
Of those I would not show thee now
And she, who bless'd us both awhile,
Has left her spirit on thy brow;
O doubly dear! now her's is cold,
I would not hear thy death-bell toll'd!
Of those I would not show thee now
And she, who bless'd us both awhile,
Has left her spirit on thy brow;
O doubly dear! now her's is cold,
I would not hear thy death-bell toll'd!
Her voice was musical—but low
And weak, before she fell asleep;
'Twas like the footfall in the snow,
Heard faintly, though it sank so deep;
Like thine, her dying accents came,
Thou hast her voice, her look, her name;
And weak, before she fell asleep;
'Twas like the footfall in the snow,
Heard faintly, though it sank so deep;
Like thine, her dying accents came,
Thou hast her voice, her look, her name;
My life will wear a sunny guise,
If thou wilt dwell below with me,
And every morrow's sun shall rise
To greet my sight delightfully,
With thee, throughout the livelong hours,
To strew thy father's path with flowers;
If thou wilt dwell below with me,
And every morrow's sun shall rise
To greet my sight delightfully,
With thee, throughout the livelong hours,
To strew thy father's path with flowers;
99
But if thou must from earth depart,
Long, long, my wounded heart must bleed;
Though God can make that mourning heart
As lowly as the bending reed,
Yet to the last, till sense be cold,
I needs must hear thy death-bell toll'd!
Long, long, my wounded heart must bleed;
Though God can make that mourning heart
As lowly as the bending reed,
Yet to the last, till sense be cold,
I needs must hear thy death-bell toll'd!
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