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 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 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 sorrows 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 wrapp'd 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd: Th Shoot Whe Ther Her Arou So the 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, 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 days again appear, I would not trust my heart-the dear delight Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; VOL. VII. * Garth. S But higher far my proud pretensions rise- And, while the wings of fancy still are free, FRIENDSHIP. WHAT virtue, or what mental grace, And dulness of discretion. If every polish'd gem we find, Provoke to imitation; No wonder friendship does the same, Or rather constellation. No knave but boldly will pretend Nor any fool, he would deceive, And dream that he had found one. Candid, and generous, and just, Boys care but little whom they trust, For who but learns in riper years But here again a danger lies, An acquisition rather rare No friendship will abide the test, Or mean self-love erected; |