Minority. No tutor charged his hand With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind With problems. History, not wanted yet, Lean'd on her elbow,watching Time, whose course, Eventful, should supply her with a theme. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK. THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANNE BODHAM. O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! it answers- -Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew 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! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By expectation every day beguiled, 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 learn'd at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; Shortlived possession! but the record fair, The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here. I prick'd them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile), Could those few pleasant days again appear, 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, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) Shoots into port at some well haven'd isle, 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; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore Where tempests never beat nor billows roar',' And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'dMe howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd, Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide,and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet O 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— The son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now farewell-Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By Contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine; › Garth. 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 theftThyself removed, thy power to sooth me left. HEROISM. THERE was a time when Etna's silent fire She teem'd and heaved with an infernal birth It marches o'er the prostrate works of man; Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass, |