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 learn'd 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 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 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 words 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 every 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,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd,
"Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call'd the pastoral house our owu.
Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd

A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ;—
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 interpos'd 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 notic'd here.
Could Time, his flight revers'd, 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, Would'st 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.-
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'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,
"Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar ;"
And thy lov'd consort, on the dangerous tide
Of life, long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd,—
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd,
Sails ripp'd, seams op'ning 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 enthron'd, 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 unrevok'd has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem t' have liv'd 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 remov'd, thy pow'r to soothe me left.

"WELL may'st thou bend o'er this congenial sphere; For Sensibility is Sovereign here.

Thou seest her train of sprightly damsels sport,
Where the soft spirit holds her rural court;

But fix thine eye attentive to the plain,
And mark the varying wonders of her reign."
As thus she spoke, she pois'd her airy seat
High o'er a plain exhaling every sweet;

For round its precincts all the flowers that bloom

Fill'd the delicious air with rich perfume;

And in the midst a verdant throne appear'd,

In simplest form by graceful fancy rear'd,

And deck'd with flowers; not such whose flaunting dyes

Strike with the strongest tint our dazzl'd eyes;

But those wild herbs that tend'rest fibres bear,

And shun th' approaches of a damper air.

Here stood the lovely ruler of the scene,

And beauty, more than pomp, announc'd The Queen.

The bending snowdrop and the briar-rose,
The simple circle of her crown compose;
Roses of every hue her robe adorn,
Except th' insipid rose without a thorn.
Of that enchanting age her figure seems,
When smiling nature with the vital beams
Of vivid youth, and Pleasure's purple flame,
Gilds her accomplish'd work, the female frame,
With rich luxuriance tender, sweetly wild,
And just between the woman and the child.
Her fair left arm around a vase she flings,
From which the tender plant mimosa springs;
Towards its leaves, o'er which she fondly bends,
The youthful fair her vacant hand extends

With gentle motion, anxious to survey
How far the feeling fibres own her sway;

The leaves, as conscious of their Queen's command,
Successive fall at her approaching hand;
While her soft breast with pity seems to pant,
And shrinks at every shrinking of the plant.

Around their sovereign, on the verdant ground,
Sweet airy forms in mystic measures bound.
Unnumber'd damsels different charms display,
Pensive with bliss, or in their pleasures gay.
But, the bright triumphs of their joy to check,
In the clear air there hangs a dusky speck ;
It swells-it spreads-and rapid, as it grows,
O'er the gay scene a chilling shadow throws.
The soft Serena, who beheld its flight,
Suspects no evil from a cloud so light;