POETRY.
BORN DUMB.
MY little love ! my little speechless ! Can I forget my woman's heart, and be For ever mute to grief, for ever mild Is it not hard to bear the falling rod When such an ailment for these baby lips Divinely suits the policy of God P The lambs that play too long at hide-and-seek Have tongues that ask for mothers ; these, I know, Learn lovely meanings when the children speak.
The mother comes from far across the field And calls assurance to her anxious child, As I had answered had my lamb appealed !
So with unfeathered blackcaps ; so with things Whose tones are pitched too low for mortal ears ; They plead, and Nature sends them breast and wings.
But I shall never hear that storied speech, That lovely language whose expression is Defiance of all rules that man may teach ; Nor hear against My heart'a son's content When for his mouth the willing milk is kind, And for his lips ray fountain is well spent.
I have brought silence to my husband's knee ! And he (0 baby, baby, try to speak !) So greatly counted on thy mimicry Of words his wit prepared to plague thy lips, Ready to kiss that rosebud impotence, Thy mouth, and garner all thy precious slips.
"Mother," he used to say, "when I am worn In days to come with writing, you shall bring This bud of April on your shoulder borne, And he shall chatter to my chain, or tear My latest lyric, or shall cry to touch The raining splendours of your ravished hair, Until he dwindle and his eyes grow dim, And we can worship him before the fire, And kiss each other many thanks for him.
We will undress him in your cradling lap, And spy upon his beauty, praying God To bless his life with fruit of tender hap ; Then I will have him at my heart awhile" (0 baby, baby, baby, try to speak !) "And watch the fading of his sleepy smile Till dimples cannot follow kisses pressed Upon the pouting slumber of his mouth, And I restore his beauty to thy breast."
0 husband, husband, and the child is dumb !
The lamb outspeaks him and the day-old thrush,— How shall I break this news when that you come ?
My travail was for silence, and my dove Can only watch his mother's moving lips, And never give her back a word of love !
Father of his upon the ocean, come !
Thy wife desires thy head upon her breast,— The child of our enchantment is born dumb !
NORMAN GALE..
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