Charles! my slow heart was only sad, when first
        I scann'd that face of feeble infancy:
For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst
        All I had been, and all my child might be!
But when I saw it on its mother's arm,
        And hanging at her bosom (she the while
        Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile)
Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm
Impress'd a father's kiss: and all beguil'd
        Of dark remembrance and presageful fear,
        I seem'd to see an angel-form appear—
'Twas even thine, belovéd woman mild!
        So for the mother's sake the child was dear,
And dearer was the mother for the child.