“Ill-placed my heart; I love another’s child,”[2]
Sings wistfully, and sighs, a bard of France;
And ah! the hunger in the accents mild,
The pain behind the smiling countenance!
Vexed with the ache of uncompanioned souls,
His playmate at his mother’s side he sees,
And scarce his tender jealousy controls
When swift he springs upon his father’s knees.
Nay, poet, sing for joy, exult and sing!
Thy dear one lives, though not for thee his heart;
He lives, he breathes, he ails not anything;
Watch him and love, and, praising God, depart.
’Tis but his father sweetly rivals thee,
While death, alas! requires my love of me.
Footnote 2:
“J’ai mal placé mon cœur—j’aime l’enfant d’un autre.”—_Sully
Prudhomme._