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Shall bear his trophies well.—And this is love! This is man's love!—What marvel?—you ne'er made Your breast the pillow of his infancy, While to the fulness of your heart's glad heavings His fair cheek rose and fell; and his bright hair Waved softly to your breath!—You ne'er kept watch Beside him, till the last pale star had set, And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke On your dim weary eye; not yours the face Which, early faded thro' fond care for him, Hung o'er his sleep, and, duly as Heaven's light, Was there to greet his wakening! You ne'er smooth'd His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest, Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours Had learn'd soft utterance; press'd your lip to his, When fever parch'd it; hush'd his wayward cries, With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love! No! these are woman's tasks!—In these her youth, And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart, Steal from her all unmark'd!—My boys! my boys! Hath vain affection borne with all for this? —Why were ye given me?

Is there strength in man Thus to endure?—That thou couldst read, thro' all