Voice From The Hovel

O if, with living blood From my heart streaming, I could thee restore, Poor, frozen body of my little son! But my heart dies within me, And feeble is the hold of my embraces, And man is deaf and God above too high. Lay, my poor little one, thy tear-wet cheek Close to thy mother's whilst I with thee speak.

Not so thy brother lay; Hardly he drew amid the stifling snow His failing breath, as on his way he crept. After the toilsome day, Beneath a heavy load, his little steps Failed to keep even pace with th' hurrying men, While the rough path and the night's stormy frown Conspired with man to drag his courage down.

The gusts of whirling snow Beat through his ragged clothes, his wearied limbs. He falls, and, bleeding, tries to lift himself, But 'tis in vain; and hunger Now drains his little strength, and at the end Of the dolorous way he gives the struggle over; Then pious Death comes down and looks upon The bruiséd form; and from its grave of snow Home to the mother's roof they bring it so.

Alas! with better reason The eagle flies for refuge from the blast Unto her eyrie on the jagged cliff, And the aged beast to his cave. A kennel warm protects the mastiff's sleep, Full fed, within the palace there, near by To where, O child, born of love's mightier breath, An icy hand leads thee away to death.