LINES,

O! that I could sweet speech, or utterance, give To lips of thine, dear infant—words to live; To tell of all that throbbed thy gentle heart, Whose tender grief no language can impart: How heard to call in vain, “Sweet mother, dear!” In melting tones that told she was not near; Her accents came not, with its soothing voice To glad thy spirit, and thine ear rejoice, And dissipate the sadness on that face, Or kiss that cheek, and give the fond embrace. Methinks I see thee, on thy nursery-floor, Pleased with each toy and plaything as before, Yet ever and anon a tear would stray, Her form remembered, in its childish play; Baulked in its hopes, with sad half-pouting look, That spoke of sorrow young, and hard to brook, Whose inward thought and lisping tongue would say, “Why, mother dear, ah! why art thou away?” Then for a time, with glistening tears still wet, Renew glad sports, maternal smiles forget; Ah! yes I see thee, lovely sleeping boy, Tired with the pastime of each headless toy, With circling arms, of dimpled roundness seen, As though thou didst on her dear bosom lean, Thy mother’s “Semblance” in the nursery found, Clasping it closely in affection round. Imaged in sleep (for childhood hath its dream), Perchance of her, was had a passing gleam, Or felt caresses of a parent’s love, Nestling in arms of fondness, like the dove, And on those lips sweet kisses soft imprest, Whose smiles beguiled thee, and whose love carest; These floated gently, vision’s dream of flowers, That came to vanish with awakening hours, While absence caused fresh poignant grief renew, The loss deep felt, ah! felt, dear child, by you; Sleep on, loved innocent, why wake to grieve, When thou such balmy comfort dost receive? Why could we wish those curtained lids unclose, Disturb thy slumber, happy in repose, Its little cares now hushed, again recall, And hear the sobbing babe, “Sweet mother” call: Ah! yes, though sound, those dreaming spells must break, The oblivious sleep dissolved, for thy dear sake, That schooled to learn each chequered ill to bear, In crosses, trials, taught thy part to share; Thus early brought to suffer, and to know How transient all things that delight below; Weaned from love’s fondlings, torn from their embrace, Affections warm, thus blighted, doomed to trace; ’Twas his, whose sentient nature, taught to prove, How dear the memory of a mother’s love. The “Bard of Olney,” severed from those ties, Deplored and wept amid a life of sighs, A darker shade than falls to every lot, His spirit clouded, and was ne’er forgot; The world delusive proved, from hence might rise Hopes brighter fixed, joy, love, that never dies.