Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear,
Turn’d from the white-robed priest, and round her arm
Clung even as joy clings—the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swell’d high, and o’er her child
Bending, her soul broke forth in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song. “Alas!” she cried,—
“Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes;
And now fond thoughts arise,