Thus tenderly and kindly The fair child Jesus spoke; And full of careful musings, The anxious mother woke. And thus it was accomplished In a short month and a day, The lonely boy, so gentle, Upon his death-bed lay. And thus he spoke in dying: “Oh mother dear, I see That beautiful child Jesus A-coming down to me! “And in his hand he beareth Bright flowers as white as snow, And red and juicy strawberries,-- Dear mother, let me go?” He died--but that fond mother Her sorrow did restrain, For she knew he was with Jesus, And she asked him not again! _Paol._ I wish that I had been that boy, dear mother! _Ter._ How so, my, Paolo, did not that boy die, And leave his mother childless? _Paol._ Ah, alas, I had forgotten that! But, mother dear, Thou couldst not be so wretched, wanting me, As I, if thou wert not! It breaks my heart Only to think of it; and I do pray, Morning and night, that I may never lose thee! _Ter._ My precious child, heaven is so very good, I do believe it will not sunder us Who are so dear, so needful to each other! _Paol._ Let us not speak of parting! and, indeed, I will not be a hunter when a man; I will not leave thee early in a morning, And keep away from thee for days and days! I do not love the chase, it frightens me; The horrid bark of wolves fills me with dread. I dream of them at night! _Ter._ Thou shalt not, love! And yet, what couldst thou be, if not a hunter, In these wild regions, Paolo! _Paol._ Oh no, mother, I will be not a hunter! They are fierce, They have loud angry voices. Dearest mother I tremble when I hear my father speak; I wish he was as kind, and spoke as sweetly As thou dost. _Ter._ Hush, my Paolo--say not thus-- Thy father is a bold and skilful hunter,-- A very skilful hunter. _Paol._ Yes I know it; I’ve often heard it said. But tell me why Men are so stern! If I am e’er a man, I will be kind and gentle; and the dogs Shall not start up whene’er they hear my step, And skulk away from the warm, pleasant hearth. I will love all things, mother; I will make All things love me! _Ter._ My dearest, gentle boy, I do believe thou wilt! _Paol._ Mother, hast heard My father goes unto the chase to-day, And that strange hunter with him! _Ter._ Nay, my love, In this wild storm they will not go to hunt.