[37] Vide an amusing little jeu-d'esprit—A Descant upon Weather-Wisdom—both Witty and Wise.—Anon. Longmans. 1845.
[38] There is an exquisite little poem, taken from this passage of Plutarch, at once imaginative and true, for hidden truths are embodied in the tangible workings of the poet's imagination, by Miss Barrett.
A MOTHER TO HER FORSAKEN CHILD.
My child—my first-born! Oh, I weep
To think of thee—thy bitter lot!
The fair fond babe that strives to creep
Unto the breast where thou art not,
Awakes a piercing pang within,
And calls to mind thy heavy wrong.
Alas! I weep not for my sin—
To thy dark lot these tears belong.
Thy little arms stretch forth in vain
To meet a mother's fond embrace;
Alas! in weariness or pain,
Thou gazest on a hireling's face.
I left thee in thy rosy sleep—
I dared not then kneel down to bless;
Now—now, albeit thou may'st weep,
Thou canst not to my bosom press.
My child! though beauty tint thy cheek,
A deeper dye its bloom will claim,
When lips all pitiless shall speak
Thy mournful legacy of shame.
Perchance, when love shall gently steal
To thy young breast all pure as snow,
This cruel thought shall wreck thy weal,
The mother's guilt doth lurk below. J. D.