Poem by Charles Tennyson Turner

Her First-Born

IT was her first sweet child, her heart’s delight;
  And though we all foresaw his early doom,
We kept the fearful secret out of sight;
  We saw the canker, but she kissed the bloom.
And yet it might not be: we could not brook
  To vex her happy heart with vague alarms,
To blanch with fear her fond intrepid look,
  Or send a thrill through those encircling arms.
She smiled upon him, waking or at rest;
  She could not dream her little child would die;
  She tossed him fondly with an upward eye;
    She seemed as buoyant as a summer spray
That dances with a blossom on its breast,
    Nor knows how soon it will be borne away.

1. The Hydraulic Ram, or The Influence of Sound on Mood
2. Silkworms and Spiders
3. Calvus to a Fly
4. The Buoy-Bell
5. Mary Queen of Scots

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