Fair tiny rosebud! what a tide br Of hidden joy, o’erpow’ring, deep, br Of grateful love, of woman’s pride, br Thrills through my heart till I must weep br With bliss to look on thee, my son, br My first born child—my darling one! br br What joy for me to sit and gaze br Upon thy gentle, baby face, br And, dreaming of far distant days, br With mother’s weakness strive to trace br Tokens of future greatness high, br On thy smooth brow and lustrous eye. br br What do I wish thee, darling, say? br Is it that lordly mental power br That o’er thy kind will give thee sway, br Unchanging, full, a glorious dower br For those whose minds may grasp its worth, br True rulers and true kings of earth? br br Or would I ask for thee that fire br Of wond’rous genius, great divine, br The spell that charms the poet’s lyre, br Till like a halo it will shine br Around a name praised, honored, sung, br In distant climes by many a tongue? br br Ah, no! my child, with such vain themes br I will not mar thy quiet rest br Nor wish ambition’s restless dreams br Infused into thy tranquil breast; br Too soon will manhood’s weight of care br O’ercloud that waxen brow so fair.