III “A fire was once within my brain;
            And in my head a dull, dull pain;
            And fiendish faces, one, two, three,
            Hung at my breast, [1] and pulled at me;
            But then there came a sight of joy; 25
            It came at once to do me good;
            I waked, and saw my little boy,
            My little boy of flesh and blood;
            Oh joy for me that sight to see! 
            For he was here, and only he. 30

IV “Suck, little babe, oh suck again! 
            It cools my blood; it cools my brain;
            Thy lips I feel them, baby! they
            Draw from my heart the pain away. 
            Oh! press me with thy little hand; 35
            It loosens something at my chest;
            About that tight and deadly band
            I feel thy little fingers prest. 
            The breeze I see is in the tree: 
            It comes to cool my babe and me. 40

V “Oh! love me, love me, little boy! 
            Thou art thy mother’s only joy;
            And do not dread the waves below,
            When o’er the sea-rock’s edge we go;
            The high crag cannot work me harm, 45
            Nor leaping torrents when they howl;
            The babe I carry on my arm,
            He saves for me my precious soul;
            Then happy lie; for blest am I;
            Without me my sweet babe would die. 50

VI “Then do not fear, my boy! for thee
            Bold as a lion will I be; [2]
            And I will always be thy guide,
            Through hollow snows and rivers wide. 
            I’ll build an Indian bower; I know 55
            The leaves that make the softest bed: 
            And, if from me thou wilt not go,
            But still be true till I am dead,
            My pretty thing! then thou shall sing
            As merry as the birds in spring. 60

VII “Thy father cares not for my breast,
            ’Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest;
            ’Tis all thine own!—­and, if its hue
            Be changed, that was so fair to view,
            ’Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! 65
            My beauty, little child, is flown,
            But thou wilt live with me in love;
            And what if my poor cheek be brown? 
            ’Tis well for me, thou canst not see
            How pale and wan it else would be. 70

VIII “Dread not their taunts, my little Life;
            I am thy father’s wedded wife;
            And underneath the spreading tree
            We two will live in honesty.