XVI.

Mother of Love! Thy love to Him Cherub and seraph can but guess:— A mother sees its image dim In her own breathless tenderness.

That infant touch none else could feel Vibrates like light through all her sense: Far off she hears his cry: her zeal With lions fights in his defence.

Unmarked his youth goes by: his hair Still smooths she down, still strokes apart: The first white thread that meets her there Glides, like a dagger, through her heart.

Men praise him: on her matron cheek There dawns once more a maiden red. Of war, of battle-fields they speak: She sees once more his father dead.

In sickness—half in sleep—she hears His foot, ere yet that foot is nigh: Wakes with a smile; and scarcely fears, If he but clasp her hand, to die.