My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorr'wing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu But was it such ?-It was.-Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd. By expectation ev'ry day beguil'd, Dupe of to morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot, But, though I less 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, In scarlet mantle warm, 'Tis now become a hist'ry little known, That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd: Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notic'd here. Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick'd 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 days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) Shoots into port at some well-haven'd 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 reach'd the shore, 66 Where tempests never beat nor billows roar," • Garth. And thy lov'd consort on the dang❜rous tide And now, And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, FRIENDSHIP. WHAT virtue, or what mental grace, And dulness of discretion. If every polish'd gem we find Provoke to initation; No wonder freudship does the same No knave but boldly will pretend And dream that he had found one. |