ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. OUT OF NORFOLK. THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM, On that thofe lips had language! Life has pafs'd The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here fhines on me ftill the fame. Oh welcome gueft, though unexpected, here! I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; And, while that face renews my filial grief, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou waft dead, Say, waft thou conscious 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 blissAh that maternal fmile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I faw the hearse 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 pass 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, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd; By disappointment every day beguil'd, 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 less deeply trac❜d. Thy nightly vifits to my chamber made, That thou might'ft know me fafe 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 shone and glow'd: All this, and, more endearing still than all, Not fcorn'd in heaven, though little notic'd here. I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou waft happier than myself the while, Would'ft foftly speak, and ftroke my head and smile) Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one with bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust 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 loved, and thou fo much, That I fhould ill requite thee to constrain 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, So thou, with fails how fwift! haft reach'd the fhore "Where tempefts never beat nor billows roar *, Always from port withheld, always distress'd— Me howling winds drive devious, tempeft tofs'd, Sails ript, feams op'ning wide, and compass loft, And day by day fome current's thwarting force Sets me more diftant from a profp'rous course. |