VIII.

And thou, my boy! that silent at my knee Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes, Fill’d with the love of childhood, which I see Pure through its depths, a thing without disguise; Thou that hast breathed in slumber on my breast, When I have check’d its throbs to give thee rest, Mine own! whose young thoughts fresh before me rise! Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer, And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful air?