The Mother Poem by Charlotte Dacre

To her Sleeping Infant.
SEE the beauteous baby smiling
In that calm and gentle sleep,
Of its grief my heart beguiling,
Bidding me forbear to weep.

But, alas! I still must sorrow,
While I think I still must sigh;
A cruel blight may, ere the morrow,
Bid my lovely rose-bud die.

Yet should the blight, in pity sparing,
Pass o'er innocence like thine,
Still I view thee, sad, despairing,
Lest thy lot resemble mine.

Love may mark thee for delusion,
Friendship thy young heart deceive,
The world will mock thy soul's effusion,
Mock the fool that could believe.

Ah! sweet babe, in that calm slumber
Vainly would my soul divine
What varied ills thy days may number,
What miseries Fate may thee design.

Enthusiast! thou may'st vainly languish,
O'er the scenes of life refine;
Then art thou doom'd to ceaseless anguish,
Or distraction must be thine.

Ingratitude will sure pursue thee,
Persecution be thy doom;
I weep, and while I sadly view thee,
Think how peaceful is the tomb.

Sleep then, sweet babe, I shall not sorrow;
Sleep thy halcyon life away;
I need not fear the blight to-morrow,
'Twill come the sharper for its stay.