Classic Poem

Sweet babe, that on thy mother's guardian breast
Slumberest, unheedful of the autumnal blast
That rocks our lowly dwelling, nor dost dream
Of woes, or cares, or persecuting rage,
Or rending passions, or the pangs that wait
On ill-requited services—sleep on,
Sleep, and be happy! 'Tis the sole relief
This anxious mind can hope from the dire pangs
Of deep corroding wrong, that thou, my babe,
And the sweet twain (the firstlings of my love!)
As yet are blessed; and that my heart's best pride,
Who, with maternal fondness, pillows thee
Beside thy life's warm fountain, is not quite
Hopeless or joyless, but with matron cares
And calm domestic virtues can avert
The melancholy fiend, and in your smiles
Read nameless consolations.
Ah, sleep on,
As yet unconscious of the patriot's name
Or of a patriot's sorrows, of the cares
For which thy name-sire bled. And, more unblessed,
Thy natural father in his native land
Wanders an exile, and of all that land
Can find no spot his home. Ill-omened babe,
Conceived in tempests, and in tempests born—
What destiny awaits thee? Reekless thou.
Oh, blessed inapprehension—let it last!
Sleep on, my babe, now while the rocking wind
Pipes mournful, length'ning my nocturnal plaint
With troubled symphony! Ah, sleep secure,
And may thy dream of life be ne'er disturbed
With visions such as mar thy father's peace—
Visions (ah, that they were but such indeed!)
That show this world a wilderness of wrongs,
A waste of troubled waters, whelming floods
Of tyrannous injustice canopied
With clouds dark-louring, whence the pelting storms
Of cold unkindness the rough torrents swell
On every side resistless. There my ark,
The scanty remnant of my deluged joys,
Floats anchorless, while through the dreary round,
Fluttering on anxious pinion, the tired foot
Of persecuted virtue cannot find
One spray on which to rest, or scarce one leaf
To cheer with promise of subsiding woe.