We ate.  The child—­child fair to see—­
Began to cling about his knee,
And he down leaning fatherly
  Received some softly-prattled prayer;
He smiled as if to list were balm,
And with his labor-hardened palm
Pushed from the baby-forehead calm
  Those shining locks that clustered there.

The rosy mouth made fresh essay—­
“O would he sing, or would he play?”
I looked, my thought would make its way—­
  “Fair is your child of face and limb,
The round blue eyes full sweetly shine.” 
He answered me with glance benign—­
“Ay, Sir; but he is none of mine. 
  Although I set great store by him.”

With that, as if his heart was fain
To open—­nathless not complain—­
He let my quiet questions gain
  His story:  “Not of kin to me,”
Repeating; “but asleep, awake,
For worse, for better, him I take,
To cherish for my dead wife’s sake,
  And count him as her legacy.

“I married with the sweetest lass
That ever stepped on meadow grass;
That ever at her looking-glass
  Some pleasure took, some natural care;
That ever swept a cottage floor
And worked all day, nor e’er gave o’er
Till eve, then watched beside the door
  Till her good man should meet her there.

“But I lost all in its fresh prime;
My wife fell ill before her time—­
Just as the bells began to chime
  One Sunday morn.  By next day’s light
Her little babe was born and dead,
And she, unconscious what she said,
With feeble hands about her spread,
  Sought it with yearnings infinite.

“With mother-longing still beguiled,
And lost in fever-fancies wild,
She piteously bemoaned her child
  That we had stolen, she said, away. 
And ten sad days she sighed to me,
’I cannot rest until I see
My pretty one!  I think that he
  Smiled in my face but yesterday.’

“Then she would change, and faintly try
To sing some tender lullaby;
And ‘Ah!’ would moan, ’if I should die,
  Who, sweetest babe, would cherish thee?’
Then weep, ’My pretty boy is grown;
With tender feet on the cold stone
He stands, for he can stand alone,
  And no one leads him motherly.’

“Then she with dying movements slow
Would seem to knit, or seem to sew: 
’His feet are bare, he must not go
  Unshod:’  and as her death drew on,
‘O little baby,’ she would sigh;
’My little child, I cannot die
Till I have you to slumber nigh—­
  You, you to set mine eyes upon.’

“When she spake thus, and moaning lay,
They said, ’She cannot pass away,
So sore she longs:’  and as the day
  Broke on the hills, I left her side. 
Mourning along this lane I went;
Some travelling folk had pitched their tent
Up yonder:  there a woman, bent
  With age, sat meanly canopied.

“A twelvemonths’ child was at her side: 
‘Whose infant may that be?’ I cried. 
‘His that will own him,’ she replied;
  ‘His mother’s dead, no worse could be.’ 
’Since you can give—­or else I erred—­
See, you are taken at your word,’
Quoth I; ’That child is mine; I heard,
  And own him!  Rise, and give him me.’