ON THE POET'S SON FURUBI
Sev'n are the treasures mortals most do prize,
But I regard them not:—
One only jewel could delight mine eyes—
The child that I begot.
My darling boy, who with the morning sun
Began his joyous day;
Nor ever left me, but with child-like fun
Would make me help him play;
Who'd take my hand when eve its shadows spread,
Saying, "I'm sleepy grown;
'Twixt thee and mother I would lay my head:—
Oh! leave me not alone!"
Then with his pretty prattle in mine ears,
I'd lie awake and scan
The good and evil of the coming years,
And see the child a man.
And, as the seaman trusts his bark, I'd trust
That nought could harm the boy:—
Alas! I wist not that the whirling gust
Would shipwreck all my joy!
Then with despairing, helpless hands I grasp'd
The sacred mirror's[147] sphere;
And round my shoulder I my garments clasp'd,
And prayed with many a tear:—
"'Tis yours, great gods, that dwell in heav'n on high,
Great gods of earth! 'tis yours
To heed, or heed not, a poor father's cry,
Who worships and implores!"