Charles Tennyson Turner (Чарльз Теннисон Тернер)
Her First-Born
IT was her first sweet child, her heart’s delight;
And though we all foresaw his early doom,
We kept the fearful secret out of sight;
We saw the canker, but she kissed the bloom.
And yet it might not be: we could not brook
To vex her happy heart with vague alarms,
To blanch with fear her fond intrepid look,
Or send a thrill through those encircling arms.
She smiled upon him, waking or at rest;
She could not dream her little child would die;
She tossed him fondly with an upward eye;
She seemed as buoyant as a summer spray
That dances with a blossom on its breast,
Nor knows how soon it will be borne away.
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