So pondered he that night in twilight dim,
While dew from bending leaves dropt down on him.
The flowers sent forth their nightly odors faint--
When, in the darkness waiting, he saw one
To whom he said--"How fareth my sweet saint?"
Who answered--"She hath borne to you a son;"
Then, turning, left him,--and the father said,
"God rain down blessings on his welcome head!"
But Margaret!--_she_ never saw the child,
Nor heard about her bed love's mournful wails;
But to the last, with ocean dreams beguiled,
Murmured of troubled seas and swelling sails--
Of weary voyages, and rocks unseen,
And distant hills in sight, all calm and green....
Woe and alas!--the times of sorrow come,
And make us doubt if we were ever glad!
So utterly that inner voice is dumb,
Whose music through our happy days we had!
So, at the touch of grief, without our will,
The sweet voice drops from us, and all is still.
Woe and alas! for the sea-captain's wife--
That Margaret who in the Xebec played--
She spent upon his knee her baby life;
Her slumbering head upon his breast she laid.
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