Whose child is this they bring
Into the aisle? —
At so superb a thing
The congregation smile
And turn their heads awhile.
Its eyes are blue and bright,
Its cheeks like rose;
Its simple robes unite
Whitest of calicoes
With lawn, and satin bows.
A pride in the human race
At this paragon
Of mortals, lights each face
While the old rite goes on;
But ah, they are shocked anon.
What girl is she who peeps
From the gallery stair,
Smiles palely, redly weeps,
With feverish furtive air
As though not fitly there?
“I am the baby’s mother;
This gem of the race
The decent fain would smother,
And for my deep disgrace
I am bidden to leave the place.”
“Where is the baby’s father?” —
“In the woods afar.
He says there is none he’d rather
Meet under moon or star
Than me, of all that are.
“To clasp me in lovelike weather,
Wish fixing when,
He says: To be together
At will, just now and then,
Makes him the blest of men;
“But chained and doomed for life
To slovening
As vulgar man and wife,
He says, is another thing:
Yea: sweet Love’s sepulchring!”