"Do not, for the world, awake her!
'Twere her death-knell to awake her!"
Urged the old and careful nursewife.
"Let me look but for a moment--
Gaze but for one little moment!"
'Twas the voice of Charles that pleaded:
Softly, then, he drew the curtain,
Gently, fearful, drew the curtain--
"Charles!--dear Charles!" a faint voice murmured,
In a tone so weak and lowly,
Sweetly weak and soul-subduing.
"Blanche!--my sweet one!" gasp'd the husband,
"Dost thou know me?--God, I thank thee!"
Then he threw his arms around her,
And, amidst a shower of kisses,
Truest, purest, grateful kisses,
Drew the loved one to his bosom:
And the babe that nestled near her
Covered he with warm caresses.
Reason, like a golden sunbeam
On a lily-cup, had lightened
Her sweet soul so dark and turbid--
For three years so darkly turbid;
Three long years so dark and turbid.
"Charles, my dream has been a sad one,"
Spake she, like expiring music,
Shadowed with a mournful sadness.
"I have dreamt they stole my baby,
Buried my dear, darling infant!"
Then she took the babe and kiss'd it,
Presst it to her snowy bosom;
And, with voice low, soft, and grateful,
Murmured, "Charles, I am _so_ happy!
Do not weep--I'm _very_ happy!"