The Firstborn - Poem by Jean Blewett
The harvest sun lay hot and strong
On waving grain and grain in sheaf,
On dusty highway stretched along,
On hill and vale, on stalk and leaf.
The wind which stirred the tasseled corn
Came creeping through the casement wide,
And softly kissed the babe new born
That nestled at its mother's side.
That mother spoke in tones that thrilled:
'My firstborn's cradled in my arm,
Upon my breast his cry is stilled,
And here he lies so dear, so warm.'
To her had come a generous share
Of worldly honors and of fame,
Of hours replete with gladness rare,
But no one hour seemed just the same
As that which came when, white and spent
With pain of travail great, she lay,
Thrilled through with rapture and content,
And love and pride, that August day.
The fairest picture of the past-
Life's tenderest page till all is done-
A glad young mother holding fast
God's wondrous gift-her little son.
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