Page:Felicia Hemans in the New Monthly Magazine Volume 11 1824.pdf/13

His sunny childhood melted from my sight,
Like a spring dew-drop—then his forehead wore
A prouder look—his eye a keener light—
—I knew these woods might be his world no more!
He loved me—but he left me!—thus they go,
Whom we have rear'd, watch'd, bless'd, too much adored!
He heard the trumpet of the Red-Cross blow,
And bounded from me, with his father's sword!

Thou weep'st!—I tremble—Thou hast seen the slain
Pressing a bloody turf—the young and fair,
With their pale beauty strewing o'er the plain
Where hosts have met—speak!—answer!—was he there?
Oh! hath his smile departed?—Could the grave
Shut o'er those bursts of bright and tameless glee?
—No!—I shall yet behold his dark locks wave—
That look gives hope—I knew it could not be!

Still weep'st thou, wanderer?—Some fond mother's glance
O'er thee, too, brooded in thine early years—
Think'st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance,
Bathed all thy faded hair in parting tears?
Speak, for thy tears disturb me!—What art thou?
Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on?
Look up!—Oh! is it—that wan cheek and brow!—
—Is it—alas! yet joy!—my Son, my Son!⁠F. H.