What! do thy little fingers leave the breast,
The fountain which thy small lip pressed at pleasure?
Could’st thou exhaust it, pledge of passion blest,
E’en then thou couldst not know my fond love’s measure.
My gentle son! sweet friend, whom I adore!
My infant love! my comfort! my delight!
I gaze on thee, and gazing o’er and o’er,
I blame the quick return of every night.
His little arms stretch forth—sleep o’er him steals—