Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/236

176 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,

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.

Then do not fear, my Boy! for thee

Bold as a lion I will be;

And I will always be thy guide,

Through hollow snows and rivers wide.

I'll build an Indian bower; I know

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 shalt sing

As merry as the birds in spring.