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Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
“Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes,
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it,) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidst me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
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 learnt that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing 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 bliss.
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell tollid on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nursery 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, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return:
What ardently I wish'd, I long believed,
And disappointed still, was still deceived,
By expectation every day beguiled,
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 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 cap,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call'd 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 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 :
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd 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 scorn'd 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 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 hours again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them

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 unbounded spirit into bonds again.
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-favour'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,
“Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar;"
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain the rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress’d-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd,
Sails ripp’d, seams opening wide, and compass lost;
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet O! the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.

And now, farewell—Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;

To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine ;
And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.


“ MOTHER, how still the baby lies!

I cannot hear his breath ;
I cannot see his laughing eyes

They tell me this is death.
My little work I thought to bring,

And sat down by his bed,
And pleasantly I tried to sing-

They hush'd me-he is dead.
They say that he again will rise,

More beautiful than now;
That God will bless him in the skies-

O, mother, tell me how!"
“Daughter, do you remember, dear,

The cold, dark thing you brought,
And laid upon the casement here,

A wither'd worm, you thought?
I told you that Almighty power

Could break that wither'd shell,
And show you, in a future hour,

Something would please you well.
Look at the chrysalis, my love,

An empty shell it lies ;
Now raise your wandering glance above,

To where yon insect flies!”

“O, yes, mamma! how very gay

Its wings of starry gold !
And see! it lightly flies away

Beyond my gentle hold.
O, mother, now I know full well,

If God that worm can change,
And draw it from this broken cell,

On golden wings to range, -
How beautiful will brother be,

When God shall give him wings,
Above this dying world to flee,
And live with heavenly things !"



"I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive


WHERE art thou?-THOU! Source and Support of all
That is or seen or felt; Thyself unseen,
Unfelt, unknown,-alas! unknowable !
I look abroad among thy works—the sky,
Vast, distant, glorious with its world of suns,-
Life-giving earth,—and ever-moving main,-
And speaking winds,—and ask if these are Thee!
The stars that twinkle on, the eternal hills,
The restless tide's outgoing and return,
The omnipresent and deep-breathing air-
Though hail'd as gods of old, and only less-
Are not the Power I seek; are thine, not Thee!
I ask Thee from the past; if in the years,
Since first intelligence could search its source,
Or in some former unremember'd being,
(If such, perchance, were mine) did they behold

Thee ?
And next interrogate futurity-

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