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Enough! With eyes of
fond unwearied love
The Mother of my story watched above
Her sleeping child; and, as she views the grace
And blushing beauty of that girlish face,
Her thoughts roam back through change of time and tide,
Since first Heaven sent the blessing by her side.
In that sweet vision she again receives
The snow-white cradle, where that tiny head
Lay, like a small bud folded in its leaves,
Fostered with dew by tears of fondness shed;
Each infantine event, each dangerous hour
Which passed with threatening o'er its fragile form,
Her hope, her anguish, as the tender flower
Bloomed to the sun, or sickened in the storm,
In memory's magic mirror glide along,
And scarce she notes the different scene around,
And scarce her lips refrain the cradle-song
Which soothed that infant with its lulling sound!
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