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Who biddest me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so Ion"..
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.
My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I learned at last submission to my lot,
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightest know me safe and warmly laid; My morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed: All this, and more endearing.still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, That humour interposed too often makes; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak.and stroke my head.and smile,) Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them
here? I would not trust my heart—the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.— But no—what here we call our life is such. So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) Shoots into port at some wellhavened isle, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile. There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the
shore, "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar*," And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life, long since, has anchored at thy side.
* Garth. VOL. II, M
24%. RECEIPT OP MY MOTHER'S PICTURE,
Rut me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
What virtue or what mental grace But men -urwrualified and base '. ..
Will boast iri their possession r . Profusion apes the noble part Of liberality of heart, T.:. ..
And dulness of discretion.
If every polished gem we find,
Provoke to imitation; s . t :,. .
Or rather constellation.
»No knave but boldly will pretend 'The requisifes that, form .a friend, A real and a sound one, Nor any fool he would deceive, But prove as ready to believe, And dream that he had found one.
Candid, and generous, and just, '' Boys car*-but little -whom they trust, An error soon coiTetted—