ON THE RECEIPT OF

MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

OUT OF NORFOLK.

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM,

On that thofe lips had language! Life has pafs'd
With me but roughly fince I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I fee,
The fame that oft in childhood folaced me;
Voice only fails, elfe, how diftin&t they fay,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Bleft be the art that can immortalize,

The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim

To quench it) here fhines on me ftill the fame.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

Oh welcome gueft, though unexpected, here!
Who bidd'ft me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother loft fo long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own;

And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy fhall weave a charm for my relief-
Shall steep me in Elyfian reverie,

A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother! when I learn'd that thou waft dead, Say, waft thou conscious of the tears I fhed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy forrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'ft me, though unfeen, a kifs; Perhaps a tear, if fouls can weep in blissAh that maternal fmile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I faw the hearse that bore thee flow away, And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long figh, and wept a last adieu! But was it fuch?—It was.-Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a found unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting found fhall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd;

By disappointment every day beguil'd,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a fad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my flock of infant forrow spent,
I learn'd at laft fubmiffion to my lot,

But, though I lefs deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In fcarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. Short liv'd poffeffion! but the record fair, That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a ftorm that has effac'd A thousand other themes less deeply trac❜d. Thy nightly vifits to my chamber made,

That thou might'ft know me fafe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The bifcuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd,

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd:

All this, and, more endearing still than all,
Thy conftant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by thofe cataracts and breaks
That humour interpos'd too often makes;
All this ftill legible in mem'ry's page,
And ftill to be so, to my lateft age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but fincere,

Not fcorn'd in heaven, though little notic'd here.
Could time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours
When, playing with thy vetture's tiffued flow'rs,
The violet, the pink, and jeffamine,

I prick'd them into paper with a pin,

(And thou waft happier than myself the while, Would'ft foftly speak, and ftroke my head and smile) Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one with bring them, would I wish them

here?

I would not trust my

heart-the dear delight Seems fo to be defir'd, perhaps I might.But no-what here we call our life is fuch, So little to be loved, and thou fo much,

That I fhould ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coaft (The ftorms all weather'd and the ocean crofs'd). Shoots into port at fome well-haven'd ifle,

Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,
There fits quiefcent on the floods that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incenfe play
Around her, fanning light her ftreamers gay;

So thou, with fails how fwift! haft reach'd the

fhore

"Where tempefts never beat nor billows roar *,
And thy loved confort on the dang'rous tide
Of life, long fince, has anchor'd at thy fide.
But me, fcarce hoping to attain that reft,

Always from port withheld, always distress'd— Me howling winds drive devious, tempeft tofs'd, Sails ript, feams op'ning wide, and compass loft, And day by day fome current's thwarting force Sets me more diftant from a profp'rous course.