And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy fhall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elyfian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.
My mother! when I learned that thou waft dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I fhed? Hovered thy fpirit o'er thy forrowing fon, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if fouls can weep in blissAh that maternal fmile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I faw the hearse, that bore thee flow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long figh, and wept a last adieu! But was it fuch?-It was.-Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a found unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting found fhall pafs my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, difappointed ftill, was ftill deceived.
By disappointment every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a fad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant forrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot,
But, though I lefs 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 fcarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short lived poffeffion! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a ftorm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly vifits to my chamber made,
That thou mightest know me fafe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The bifcuit, 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 ftill than all,
Thy conftant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interpofed too often makes;
All this ftill legible in memory's page,
And ftill 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 fincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vefture's tiffued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jeffamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,
(And thou waft happier than myself the while, Wouldft foftly speak, and ftroke my head and smile) Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one with bring them, would I wish them
I would not truft my heart-the dear delight
Seems fo to be defired, perhaps I might.-
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I fhould ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coaft
(The ftorms all weathered and the ocean croffed)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,
There fits quiefcent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her ftreamers gay;
So thou, with fails how fwift! haft reached the
" Where tempefts never beat nor billows roar *,”
And thy loved confort on the dangerous tide
Of life, long fince, has anchored at thy fide.
But me, fcarce hoping to attain that reft,
Always from port withheld, always diftreffed-
Me howling winds drive devious, tempeft toffed,
Sails ript, feams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day fome current's thwarting force
Sets me more diftant from a profperous course.
But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boaft is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretenfions rise-
The fon of parents paffed into the skies.
And now, farewell-time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not fought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the fin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of fancy ftill are free,
And I can view this mimic fhew of thee,
Time has but half fucceeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to foothe me left.
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