AT BAY.
Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh is he, Rocked on my breast and nurtured at my knee, Fed with sweet thoughts ere ever he drew breath, Wrested in battle through the gates of death.
With pasiionate patience is my treasure hoarded, And all my pain with priceless joy rewarded.
My child is mine.
Nay, but a thousand thousand powers of ill Dispute him with me : lurking wolf-like still In every covert of the ambushed years. Disease and danger dog him: foes and fears Bestride his path, with menace fierce and stormy.
Help me, 0 God! these are too mighty for me !
My child is mine.
But pomp and glitter of the garish world May wean him hence ; while, tenderly unfurled Like a spring leaf, his delicate spotless days Open in blinding sunlight. And the blaze Of blue and blossom, scents and songs at riot, May woo him from my wardenship of quiet.
My child is mine.
Yet all his gray forefathers of the past Challenge the dear possession : they o'ercast His soul's clear purity with dregs and lees Of vile unknown ancestral impulses : And viewless bands, from shadowy regions groping, With dim negation frustrate all my hoping.
My child is mine.
By what black fate, what ultimate doom accurs'd, Shall be that radiant certainty revers'd ?
Though hell should thrust its fiery gulfs between, Thoagh all the heaven of heavens should intervene, Bound with a bond not God Himself will sever, The babe I bore is mine for ever and ever.
My child is mine. MAY BYRON.
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