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 gavest me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss— Ah, 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 sound shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return: What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived ; By disappointment 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.

Cowper.

Aptness of their Power.

Still woman draws new power, new empire, still
From every blessing and from every ill,

Vice on her bosom lulls remorseful care,

And virtue hopes congenial virtue there.

Still she most hides the strength that most subdues,
To gain each end, its opposites pursues ;

Lures by neglect, advances by delay,

And gains command by swearing to obey.

Lamb.

Her Power Disdained.

Peace! Let me go, or ere it be too late;

Dip not your arrows in the honey-mead;

Paint not the wound through which my heart doth bleed Leave me unmock'd, unpitied, to my fate

Peace! Let me go.

Think you that words can smooth my rugged track? Words heal the stab your soft white hands have made, Or stir the burthen on my bosom laid?

Winds shook not earth from Atlas' bended back

Peace! Let me go..

What though it be the last time we shall meet—
Raise your white brow, and wreathe your raven hair,
And fill with music sweet the summer air;

Not this again shall draw me to your feet

Peace! Let me go.

No laurels from my vanquish'd heart shall wave
Round your triumphant beauty as you go.
Not thus adorn'd work out some other's woe-
Yet, if you will, pluck daisies from my grave!
Peace! Let me go.

Cassels.

Her Power to soften Man.

Her, too, Thou mad'st man's fitting mate.
Woman, creation's boast and flower,

Awful with beauty, on which wait
Reverence and love, Thou didst create,
With subtlest, sweetest power

To soften man, and bid him in her see

What wondrous cause for love and praise to Thee!

Praise of.

Bennett.

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,

Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things,
That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings.
But thou hast little need: there is a book,
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright;

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,

And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

Cowper.

Her Preciousness.

The treasures of the deep are not so precious

As are the conceal'd comforts of a man

Lock'd up in woman's love.

Their Preference of Bold Men.

Middleton.

Women-born to be controll'd-
Stoop to the forward and the bold;
Affect the haughty and the proud,
The gay, the frolic, and the loud.

Waller.

Her Presence of Mind.

While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels,
And the blue vales a thousand joys recall,
See, to the last, last verge her infant steals!
O fly-yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall.—
Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare,
And the fond boy springs back to nestle there.

Leonidas.

Aristocratic Pride of.

I grant I am a woman, but withal

A woman that lord Brutus took to wife;

I grant I am a woman, but withal
A woman well reputed, Cato's daughter.
Think you I am no stronger than my sex,
Being so father'd and so husbanded?

Shakespeare.

From Tuscane came my lady's worthy race;
Fair Florence was sometime their ancient seat;
The western isle, whose pleasant shore doth face
Wild Camber's cliffs, did give her lively heat.
Foster'd she was with milk of Irish breast;
Her sire an earl, her dam of princes' blood.

From tender years, in Britain doth she rest
With king's child, where she tasteth costly food.
Hunsdon did first present her to my eyen:
Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she hight.
Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine,
And Windsor, alas ! doth chase me from her sight.
Her beauty of kind, her virtue from above,
Happy is he that can obtain her love.

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey.

Her Pride in her Children.

Nor Cybele, with half so kind an eye,
Survey'd her sons and daughters of the sky;
Proud, shall I say, of her immortal fruit?
As far as pride with heavenly minds may suit,
Her pious love excell'd to all she bore;
New objects only multiplied it more.