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, beloved woman mild!
⁠So for the Mother's sake the Child was dear,
⁠And dearer was the Mother for the Child.