With sad solicitude 'twas mine to watch, In silent woe, my angel's midnight couch, Guide her uncertain steps the live-long day, Or pine in trembling terrors when away-- To see the impending stroke I could not ward, And mourn the sufferer that no love could guard; But this blest certainty my heart repays, And bids it throb with gratitude and praise. Yet pardon, Lord! my bosom's sorrowing swell, When on past scenes I yet too fondly dwell; And you who ne'er have felt the cruel pang, Who still can o'er your cherish'd darlings hang; Who have not learn'd how hard it is to part, And bear about a sad bereaved heart-- Or not possessing, ne'er conceive the charm With which maternal love the heart can warm-- With kind indulgence hear pale sorrow's moan, Nor lightly judge the woes you have not known.
Should the Supreme a cherub fair bestow, More sweet than all his hand e'er form'd below; While all that helpless infancy endears Wakes into life a mother's hopes and fears-- And if thy heart shall love as mine has loved, And prove the bitter pangs that mine has proved, Then may'st thou judge--for thou wilt truly know That keenest pang, a tender mother's woe; Then wilt thou, pitying, hear pale sorrow's moan, And kindly mingle with her sighs, thy own.
Thus, shadowy eve, allured and soothed by thee, A wand'ring visionary I shall be-- And when o'er earth thy dewy breezes sweep, Seek thy sequestered shades to muse and weep; Not bitter tears--or without comfort shed, A tribute to the loved, the honor'd dead.
Hail gentle spirits! while thus memory true In fancy's wanderings oft communes with you, This world recedes--the silent grave appears A blest asylum from all earthly cares! And faith, the hope inspiring, sooths my breast, That _there_ the sad and weary shall have rest.
We shall for the present, conclude with the following "_Lines written on hearing a lady use the expression of smiling autumn_."
Autumn, how should that languid air That smoothed thy brow erewhile, Be (though a frown thou dost not wear) Mistaken for a smile?
The glow that dyes thy tawny cheek, The gleam that lights thine eye, Nor smiling grace, nor joy bespeak-- Thy every breath's a sigh.
Or if, perchance, a transient smile Breaks o'er the fading scene, To cheer thy plaintive brow the while And wake its sad serene;