Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last,

Shall soothe this aching heart for all the past—
With many a smile my solitude repay,

And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.

“And say, when summon'd from the world and thee,

I lay my head beneath the willow tree;

Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear,
And soothe my parted spirit ling'ring near?
Oh, wilt thou come, at ev'ning hour, to shed
The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed;
With aching temples on thy hand reclin'd,
Muse on the last farewell I leave behind,
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low,
And think on all my love, and all my woe?"

So speaks affection, ere the infant eye

Can look regard, or brighten in reply;

But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim

A mother's ear by that endearing name;

Soon as the playful innocent can prove
A tear of pity, or a smile of love,

Or cons his murm'ring task beneath her care,
Or lisps with holy look his ev'ning prayer,
Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear

The mournful ballad warbled in his ear;
How fondly looks admiring Hope the while,
At every artless tear, and every smile!
How glows the joyous parent to descry
A guileless bosom, true to sympathy!

Where is the troubled heart, consign'd to share

Tumultuous toils, or solitary care,

Unblest by visionary thoughts that stray

To count the joys of Fortune's better day!
Lo, nature, life, and liberty relume

The dim-ey'd tenant of the dungeon gloom,
A long lost friend, or hapless child restor’d,
Smile at his blazing hearth and social board;
Warm from his heart the tears of rapture flow,
And virtue triumphs o'er remember'd woe.

Chide not his peace, proud Reason! nor destroy The shadowy forms of uncreated joy,

That urge the lingering tide of life, and pour

Spontaneous slumber on his midnight hour.

Hark! the wild maniac sings, to chide the gale That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail;

She, sad spectatress, on the wint'ry shore

Watch'd the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore, Knew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze,

Clasp'd her cold hands, and fix'd her maddening gaze: Poor widow'd wretch! 'twas there she wept in vain,

Till memory fled her agonizing brain;—

But Mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe,
Ideal peace, that Truth could ne'er bestow;

Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam,

And aimless Hope delights her darkest dream.

Oft when yon moon has climb'd the midnight sky,

And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry,

Pil'd on the steep, her blazing faggots burn

To hail the bark that never can return;

And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep
That constant love can linger on the deep.

And, mark the wretch, whose wand'rings never knew The world's regard, that soothes, though half untrue, Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, But found not pity when it err'd no more. Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye Th' unfeeling proud one looks-and passes by; Condemn'd on Penury's barren path to roam, Scorn'd by the world, and left without a home— Ev'n he, at evening, should he chance to stray Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-scented way,