Sonnet XXIV. To My Infant Child

In peril and deep fear before thy day,
My child, when hope had perish'd, thou wast born,
Yet wast thou lovely from thy natal morn;
And vigorous health in all thy limbs did play,
As if thou wouldst our every fear allay,
And laugh our fond anxieties to scorn.
Seven months roll'd by, and thou wast fiercely torn
By fell disease; but that too pass'd away,
Mocking hope's second death; and now again,
(Kind Heaven be praised) thy pulse with health beats strong,
And thou, untouch'd by any grief or pain,
Fillest our home with gladness all day long,
Singing, with all thy little might and main,
Thy inarticulate and infant song.