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And then thou'lt wish, as I do now,
Thy hand my humble bed had smooth'd, Wip'd the chill moisture off my brow,
And all the wants of sickness sooth'd.
For, oh! the means to sooth my pain
My poverty has still deny’d;
Thy riches had those means supply'd.
Thou'lt wish, with keen repentance wrung,
I'd clos'd my eyes upon thy breast, Expiring, while thy falt'ring tongue
Pardon in kindest tones express’d.
O sounds which I must never hear!
Through years of woe my fond desire ! O mother, spite of all, most dear!
Must I unblest by thee expire ?
Thy love alone I call to mind,
And all thy past disdain forget,Each keen reproach, each frown unkind,
That crush'd my hopes when last we met.
But when I saw that angry brow,
Both health and youth were still my own ; O mother! could'st thou see me now,
Thou would'st not have the heart to frown.
But see! my orphan's cheek displays
Both youth and health's carnation dies, Such as on mine in happier days
So fondly charm'd thy partial eyes.
Grief o'er her bloom a veil now draws,
Grief her lov'd parent's pangs to see; And when thou think'st upon the cause,
That paleness will have charms for thee.
And thou wilt fondly press that cheek,
Bid happiness its bloom restore, And thus in tend'rest accents speak,
“ Sweet orphan, thou shalt weep no more.”
But wilt thou thus indulgent be?
O! am I not by hope beguild ? The long, long anger shown to me,
Say, will it not pursue my child ?
And must she suffer for
groves sequester'd, dark, and still, Low vales, and mossy cells among, In silent paths, the nameless rill
With liquid murmurs steals along;
Awhile it plays with circling sweep,
And ling’ring winds its native plain, Then pours-impetuous down the steep,
And mingles with the boundless main.
0! let my years thus devious glide
Through silent scenes, obscurely calm; Nor wealth nor strife pollute the tide,
Nor honour's sanguinary palm.
When labour tires, and pleasure palls,
Still let the stream untroubled lie: As down the steep of age it falls, And mingles with eternity!
Dr. Hawksworth. THE SAILOR BOY.
Written by Mr. Bowden, of Frome, Somersetshire, on accompanying his Son who was to embark on board the Triton.
Calm was the sea, the sky was fair,
And gently blew the prosp'rous. gale,
I saw the Triton's flowing sail.
In gallant trim she plough'd the waves,
Whilst high upon the giddy, mast.
And whistled to the rising blast.
Prostrate upon the ground I fell,
My bosom full of hope and fear,
I thus pour’d out a parent's pray'r:
Oh ! thou great Ruler of the skies,
Thou, who canst save or canst destroy,
Oh! guard my little Sailor Boy.
When tempests rattle o'er the main,
And even seamen sharink with dread, May some commission'd cherub shield
And guard his unprotected head.
He was the first born of my sons,
His father's hope, his mother's joy, Oh! to their fond and anxious arms
Restore their much-lov'd Sailor Boy.
In battle may he win the day,
And ride triumphant o'er the waves, Fight gallantly in freedom's cause,
But never, never league with slaves.
And when the glorious day is won,
And shouts of vict'ry rend the sky, When high in air the streamers float,
And British flags triumphant fly;
Oh! then, when Neptune's sons exult,
And ev'ry heart beats high with joy, In safety to his native shore
Bring back my conq'ring Sailor Boy.