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Across the waters I am come,
And I have left a Babe at home :
A long, long way of land and sea !
Come to me, I'm no enemy:
I am the same who at thy side
Sate yesterday, and made a nest
For thee, sweet Baby !—thou hast tried,
Thou know'st, the pillow of my breast:
Good, good art thou; alas ! to me
Far more than I can be to thee.
Here little Darling dost thou lie;
An Infant Thou, a Mother I!
Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears;
Mine art thou-spite of these my tears.
Alas! before I left the spot,
My Baby and its dwelling-place;
The Nurse said to me, “Tears should not
Be shed upon an Infant's face,
It was unlucky'— no, no, no;
No truth is in them who say so!
My own dear Little-one will sigh,
Sweet Babe ! and they will let him die.
“He pines,” they'll say, “it is his doom,
And you may see his hour is come.”
Oh! had he but thy chearful smiles,
Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay,
Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles,
And countenance like a summer's day,
They would have hopes of him-and then
I should behold his face again!
'Tis gone-forgotten—let me do
My best— there was a smile or two,
I can remember them, I see
The smiles, worth all the world to me.
Dear Baby! I must lay thee down;
Thou troublest me with strange alarms;
Smiles hast Thou, sweet ones of thy own;
I cannot keep thee in my arms,
For they confound me : as it is,
I have forgot those smiles of his.
wh! how I love thee! we will stay
Together here this one half day.
My Sister's Child, who bears my name,
From France across the Ocean came;
She with her Mother cross'd the sea ;
The Babe and Mother near me dwell:
My Darling, she is not to me
What thou art ! though I love her well:
Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here;
Never was any Child more dear!
- I cannot help it-ill intent
I've none, my pretty Innocent!
I weep-I know they do thee wrong,
These tears—and my poor idle tongue.
Oh what a kiss was that! my cheek
How cold it is ! but thou art good;
Thine eyes are on me—they would speak,
I think, to help me if they could.
Blessings upon that quiet face,
My heart again is in its place!
While thon art mine, my little Love,
This cannot be a sorrowful grove;
Contentment, hope, and Mother's glee,
I seem to find them all in thee:
Here's grass to play with, here are flowers ;
I'll call thee by my Darling's name;
Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,
Thy features seem to me the same;
His little Sister thou shalt be;
And, when once more my home I see,
I'll tell bim many tales of Thee.”
Or the Charge of a Child to his younger Companion.
This is work which I am raeing-
Do as Charles and I are doing !
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,
We must spare them here are many :
Look at it—the Flower is small,
Small and low, though fair as any :
Do not touch it! summers two
I am older, Anne, than you.