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Charm'd with the fight, the world, I cried,

Shall hear of this thy deed,

My dog fhall mortify the pride

Of man's fuperior breed;

But, chief, myself I will enjoin,

Awake at duty's call,

To show a love as prompt as thine
To Him who gives me all.

ON THE RECEIPT OF

MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

OUT OF NORFOLK.

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM.

OH that thofe lips had language! Life has pafs'd
With me but roughly fince I heard thee last.
Thofe lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I fee,
The fame that oft in childhood folaced me;
Voice only fails, elfe, how diftin&t they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chafe all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of thofe dear eyes

(Bleft be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here fhines on me ftill the fame.
Faithful remembrancer of one fo dear,

Oh welcome gueft, though unexpected, here!
Who bidd'ft me honour with an artless fong,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

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 fteep me in Elyfian reverie,

A momentary dream, that thou art fhe.

My mother! when I learn'd that thou waft dead, Say, waft thou confcious of the tears I shed ? Hover'd thy fpirit o'er thy forrowing fon, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if fouls can weep in blissAh that maternal fmile! it aniwers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearfe that bore thee flow away, And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long figh, and wept a last adieu!

But was it fuch? It was. Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a found unknown.

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting found fhall pafs my lips no more!
Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of a quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd,
And, difappointed still, was still deceiv'd;
By disappointment every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a fad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant forrows spent,
I learn'd at laft fubmiffion to my lot,

But, though I lefs deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,

Children not thine have trod my nurs❜ry floor;
And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In fcarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call'd the past'ral house our own.
Short liv'd poffeffion! but the record fair,
That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a ftorm that has effac'd

A thousand other themes lefs deeply trac❜d.
Thy nightly vifits to my chamber made,

That thou might'st 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 beftow'd,

By thy own hand, till fresh they fhone and glow'd:]
All this, and, more endearing ftill than all,
Thy conftant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks
That humour interpos'd too often makes;
All this ftill legible in mem'ry's page,
And ftill to be fo, 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 fincere,

Not fcorn'd in heaven, though little notic'd here. Could time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours When playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jassamine,

I prick'd them into paper with a pin,

(And thou waft happier than myself the while,
Would't foftly speak, and ftroke my head and smile)
Could thofe few pleasant hours again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not truft my heart-the dear delight
Seems fo to be defir'd, perhaps I might.-
But no-what here we call our life is fuch,
So little to be lov'd, 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 coaft
(The ftorms all weather'd and the ocean crofs'd)
Shoots into port at fome well-haven'd ifle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,
There fits quiefcent on the floods that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incenfe play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;

So thou, with fails how fwift! haft reach'd the shore "Where tempefts never beat nor billows roar *,

*"

*Garth

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