Charles! my slow heart was only sad, when first

I scann'd that face of feeble infancy: For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst All I had been, and all my child might be! But when I saw it on its mother's arm, And hanging at her bosom (she the while Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile) Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm Impress'd a father's kiss: and all beguil'd Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, I seem'd to see an angel-form appear-- 'Twas even thine, belovéd woman mild! So for the mother's sake the child was dear, And dearer was the mother for the child.

1796.