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 I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; filial grief, Fancy fhall weave a charm for my relief Shall steep me in Elyfian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou waft dead, Say, waft thou confcious of the tears I fhed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy forrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? Perhaps thou gav'ft me, though unfeen, a kifs; Perhaps a tear, if fouls can weep in blifsAh that maternal fmile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I faw the hearfe that bore thee flow away, And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long figh, and wept a laft 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 fhore, The parting found fhall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. What ardently I wifh'd, I long believ'd, And, disappointed ftill, was ftill deceiv'd; By disappointment every day beguil'd, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a fad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant forrows fpent, 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 scarlet 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 storm that has effac'd A thousand other themes lefs deeply trac' 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 bifcuit or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd, By thy own hand, till fresh they fhone and glow'd: Perhaps a frail memorial, but fincere, Not scorn'd in heaven, though little notic'd here. I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coaft So thou, with fails how swift! haft reach'd the shore "Where tempefts never beat nor billows roar*,' VOL. II. D D * Garth. And thy lov'd confort on the dang'rous tide Of life, long fince, has anchor'd at thy fide. But me, fcarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always diftrefs'dMe howling winds drive devious, tempeft tofs'd, Sails ript, feams op'ning wide, and compass lost, And day by day fome current's thwarting force Sets me more diftant from a profperous course. But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boaft is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthron'd and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretenfions rifeThe fon of parents pafs'd into the skies. And now, farewell-time, unrevok'd, has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplations help, not fought in vain, I feem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the fin of violating thine; And, while the wings of fancy ftill are free, And I can view this mimic fhew of thee, Time has but half fucceeded in his theftThyfelf removed, thy power to foothe me left. |