The Son In Old Age

Thy noble face, Regina, calls to mind My poor lost little one, my latest born. He was a gift from God--a sign of pardon-- That child vouchsafed me in my eightieth year! I to his little cradle went, and went, And even while 'twas sleeping, talked to it. For when one's very old, one is a child! Then took it up and placed it on my knees, And with both hands stroked down its soft, light hair-- Thou wert not born then--and he would stammer Those pretty little sounds that make one smile! And though not twelve months old, he had a mind. He recognized me--nay, knew me right well, And in my face would laugh--and that child-laugh, Oh, poor old man! 'twas sunlight to my heart. I meant him for a soldier, ay, a conqueror, And named him George. One day--oh, bitter thought! The child played in the fields. When thou art mother, Ne'er let thy children out of sight to play! The gypsies took him from me--oh, for what? Perhaps to kill him at a witch's rite. I weep!--now, after twenty years--I weep As if 'twere yesterday. I loved him so! I used to call him 'my own little king!' I was intoxicated with my joy When o'er my white beard ran his rosy hands, Thrilling me all through.