| |
| OH that those lips had language! Life has passed | |
| With me but roughly since I heard thee last. | |
| Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see, | |
| The same that oft in childhood solaced me; | |
| Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, | 5 |
| ‘Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!’ | |
| The meek intelligence of those dear eyes | |
| (Blessed be the art that can immortalize, | |
| The art that baffles Time’s tyrannic claim | |
| To quench it) here shines on me still the same. | 10 |
| Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, | |
| O welcome guest, though unexpected here! | |
| Who bidst me honour with an artless song, | |
| Affectionate, a mother lost so long, | |
| I will obey, not willingly alone, | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
| 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 gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss: | 25 |
| Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss— | |
| Ah, that maternal smile! It answers—Yes. | |
| I heard the bell toll on thy burial day, | |
| I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, | |
| And, turning from my nursery window, drew | 30 |
| 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! | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. | |
| Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, | |
| Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, | |
| I learnt at last submission to my lot; | |
| But, though I less deplored thee, ne’er forgot. | 45 |
| Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, | |
| Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; | |
| And where the gardener Robin, day by day, | |
| Drew me to school along the public way, | |
| Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| Still outlives many a storm that has effaced | |
| A thousand other themes less deeply traced. | |
| The nightly visits to my chamber made, | |
| That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; | |
| Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, | 60 |
| 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, | 65 |
| Ne’er roughened by those cataracts and brakes | |
| 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 | 70 |
| 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, | 75 |
| 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 these few pleasant days again appear, | 80 |
| 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, | 85 |
| 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 all weathered and the ocean crossed) | |
| Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, | 90 |
| 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; | 95 |
| 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, | 100 |
| Always from port withheld, always distressed— | |
| Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest tost, | |
| 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. | 105 |
| Yet, oh, 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— | 110 |
| 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 seemed to have lived my childhood o’er again; | 115 |
| 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 show of thee, | |
| Time has but half succeeded in his theft— | 120 |
| Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. | |
| |
