So soft no pillow as his mother’s breast!—
Thus charmed to sweet repose, when twilight hours
Shed their soft influence on celestial bowers,
The cherub Innocence, with smile divine,
Shuts his white wings, and sleeps on beauty’s shrine.”[[111]]
615. Oh, if a mother did but know the joy that suckling her infant imparts, she would never for one moment contemplate having a wet-nurse to rob her of that joy—
“The starting beverage meets the thirsty lip;
’Tis joy to yield it, and ’tis joy to sip.”[[112]]
616. Lamentable, indeed, must it be, if any unavoidable obstacle should prevent a mother from nursing her own child!