Evermore turning to his mother's face,
So dove-like soft, yet bright as summer skies;
And pure his cheek as roses, ere the trace
Of earthly blight or stain their tints disgrace.
O'er my loved child enraptured still I hung;
No joy in life could those sweet hours replace,
When by his cradle low I watched and sung—
While still in memory's ear his father's promise rung.
Long, long I wept with weak and piteous cry
O'er my sweet infant, in its rosy bloom,