XXVI.
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he babe has awakened from sleepAnd unto the gaze of its mother,Bent over it, lifted another--Not the baby-looks that goUnaimingly to and fro,But an earnest gazing deepSuch as soul gives soul at lengthWhen by work and wail of yearsIt winneth a solemn strengthAnd mourneth as it wears.A strong man could not brook,With pulse unhurried by fears,To meet that baby's lookO'erglazed by manhood's tears,The tears of a man full grown,With a power to wring our own,In the eyes all undefiledOf a little three-months' child--To see that babe-brow wroughtBy the witnessing of thoughtTo judgment's prodigy,And the small soft mouth unweaned,By mother's kiss o'erleaned,(Putting the sound of lovingWhere no sound else was movingExcept the speechless cry)Quickened to mind's expression,Shaped to articulation,Yea, uttering words, yea, naming woe,In tones that with it strangely wentBecause so baby-innocent,As the child spake out to the mother, so:--
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