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. 10 Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, A momentary dream, that thou art she. 20 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, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; 30 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! And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd. By expectation ev'ry day beguil'd, 40 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 50 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 'Tis now become a hist'ry little known, That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; 60 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, t 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 mem'ry'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; 70 Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notic'd here. 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) 79 |