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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 learnt that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hovered 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 bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile !-it answers— Yes.
I heard the bell tolled 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 wished, 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 learnt 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; * The rectory at Great Berkhampstead, where he was born.
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own,
Short-lived possession ! But the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit 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 still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed 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 scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I pricked 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, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart;—the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.-
But no—what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, 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 aïl weathered and the ocean crossed),
Shoots into port at some well-havened 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 reached the shore,
“Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet 0, 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 enthroned, and rulers of the earth ;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise
The son of parents passed into the skies.
And now, farewell - Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ;
To have renewed 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 form of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY,
In Heaven Thy dwelling-place,
From infants made the public care,
And taught to seek Thy face !
Thanks for Thy Word and for Thy Day ;
And grant us, we implore,
Never to waste in sinful play
Thy holy Sabbaths more.
Thanks that we hear—but oh ! impart
To each desires sincere,
That we may listen with our heart,
And learn as well as hear.
For if vain thoughts the mind engage
Of elder far than we,
What hope that at our heedless age
Our minds should e'er be free?
Much hope, if Thou our spirits take
Under Thy gracious sway,
Who canst the wisest wiser make,
And babes as wise as they.
Wisdom and bliss Thy Word bestows,
A sun that ne'er declines ;
And be Thy mercies show'r'd on those
Who placed is where it shines.
Certain potters, while they were busied in baking their ware, seeing Homer at a small distance, and having heard much said of his wisdom, called to him, and promised him a present of their commodity, and of such other things as they could afford, if he would sing to them, when he sang as follows:
AY me my price, Potters ! and I will sing.
Attend, 0 Pallas! and with lifted arm
Protect their oven ; let the cups and all
The sacred vessels blacken well, and baked
With good success, yield them both fair renown
And profit, whether in the market sold
Or street, and let no strife ensue between us.
But, oh ye Potters ! if with shameless front
Ye falsify your promise, then I leave
No mischief uninvoked t avenge the wrong.
Come, Syntrips, Smaragus, Sabactes, come,
And Asbetus, nor let your direst dread
Omodamus, delay! Fire seize your house,
May neither house nor vestibule escape ;
May ye lament to see confusion mar
And mingle the whole labour of your hands,
And may a sound fill all your ovens, such
As of a horse grinding his provender,
While all your pots and flagons bounce within.
Come hither, also, daughter of the sun,
Circe, the sorceress, and with thy drugs