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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, a 다 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 bliss Ah that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell tolld 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,
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? I would not trust my heart-the dear delight' Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.
1 But no-what here we call our life is such, so little to be lov'd, 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 weather'd and the ocean cross'a) Shoots into port at some well-haven'd islé, 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 lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide
What virtue, or what mental grace, But men unqualified and base
Will boast it their possession ? Profusion apes the noble part Of liberality of heart,
And dulness of discretion.
If every polish'd gem we find
Provoke to imitation;
Or rather constellation.
No knave but bòldly will pretend
A real and a sound one;
And dream that he had found one,