That voice can quiet passion's mood,
Can humble merit raise on high,
And from the wise and from the good
It breathes of immortality;
There is a lip, there is an eye,
Where most I love to see it shine,
To hear it speak, to feel it sigh-
My mother, need I say 'tis thine!
Upon seeing a beautiful Infant sleeping on the bosom of its Mother.
UPON its native pillow dear,
The little slumb'rer finds repose,
His fragrant breath eludes the ear,
As zephyr passing o'er a rose.
Yet soon from that pure spot of rest,
Love's little throne! shall you be torn :
Time hovers o'er thy downy rest,
To crown thy ruby brow with thorn.
Oh! thoughtless! couldst thou now but see
On what a world thou soon must move,
Or taste the cup prepar'd for thee
Of grief, lost hopes, or widow'd love.
Ne'er from that breast thoud'st raise thine head,
But thou wouldst breathe to heav'n a pray'r,
To let thee in thy blossom fade,
And in a kiss to perish there.
In the arms of wealth reclining,
Little dream the sons of ease,
How, with cold and hunger pining,
Sadly glide my cheerless days.
Strangers scorn my simple tale,
Careless of an Orphan's fate,
Whilst, alas! each passing gale
Seems to sigh for hapless KATE!
Once a father's darling treasure,
By a mother once caress'd,
All my days were crown'd with pleasure,
All my nights with balmy rest:
Till for brighter worlds than this
Death exchang'd their earthly state;
Ah! the hour that brought them bliss,
Brought despair to hapless KATE!
Some of falsehood oft accuse me,
Some a worthless blessing give,
Oft the morsel they refuse me,
E'en the pamper'd dogs receive.
Oft the menial's haughty voice
Spurns me from his master's gate;
All, intent on selfish joys,
Mock the woes of hapeless KATE!
Cruel mortals! deaf to sorrow!
Scorners of my grief, adieu! Something whispers," Ere to-morrow KATE will be more blest than you !"
Hov'ring on yon golden beam,
Lo! my parents' spirits wait! Hark! their angel tongues exclaim, "Welcome, welcome, hapless Kate !"
ON EARLY RISING.
SEE what a crimson glory shines
Through the curtain on thy bed;
Kindly all those radiant lines,
From the pillow lift thy head.
Fling thy long clos'd casement wide:
Hark! what soft, melodious lays!
On mine ear the accents glide,
"Rationals, arise and praise."
O, what scents come on the gale,
Stores of fragrance now unfold;
"Tis those blossoms fill the vale,
Finely ting'd with pink and gold.
Health sits waiting on the hill;
Fly, and drink the morning air;
Pleasure shall thy bosom fill,
While thou seek'st the goddess there.
See what num'rous beauties shine,
Wheresoe'er the eyes can rove;
Presents from a hand divine,
To the children of his love.
Let the wings of morning bear
To that Parent songs of praise;
Let them speed with ardent pray'r
For his blessing through thy days.
Precious is each fleeting hour;
Haste, and greet the moment given;
Virtue's joys are in thy pow'r ;
Rise, and take her path to heaven.
Ah, let not Pleasure's witching eye,
Beguile thy wandering youth :-
A thousand wiles around her fly;
And thousands more in ambush lie,
To draw thy heart from truth.
Loose flowing robes her limbs adorn ;
And smiles her features wear;
But, as the rose conceals the thorn,
Full blooming to the blushing morn,
She hides each danger near.
And though her paths be strew'd with flowers,
That mock the rain-bow dies;
And mirth reside in all her bowers,
While musick floats in dulcet powers,
Along the trembling skies.
Yet, ah! the smile of Pleasure's Queen;
Her bow'rs where mirth would reign ;
Her dulcet song, her flowery scene,
With all her charms that intervene,
Are fleeting, false, and vain.
As Cupid once, his brows to grace,
A violet chaplet wove;
He chanced a honied bee displace,
Which stung the God of Love.
The chaplet quickly cast away,
With pain and rage assail'd;
In tears he to his mother gay,
The said mishap bewail'd.
"O help me, Venus! mother, see!
"May I not well complain,
"When such a paltry insect-bee,
"Can cause such bitter pain ?"
To whom the laughing dame replied"Young Urchin as thou art,
"They who thy little shafts have tried, "Can feel no greater smart.”
Written on the following line from Chaucer: "Hard is the herte that lovith nought."
As slow the waning year retires,
The wild-wood warblers lose their fires.
Long shall they rest on lonely wing,
Far from their mates, till jocund spring
Again the month of Love has brought :
But mankind nature grants to prove
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