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So sweet so hallowed 'tis to feel
The gentle woe that wakes thy sigh,
But hark! that soothing strain is o'er,
John Malcolm, Esq.
CHARACTER OF WOMAN.
Through many a land and clime a ranger,
A lonely unprotected stranger,
To all the stranger's ills a prey.
While steering thus my course precarious,
Alive to every tender feeling,
No proud delay, no dark suspicion,
Formed in benevolence of nature,
Obliging, modest, gay, and mild, Woman's the same endearing creature, In courtly town and savage wild.
When parched with thirst, with hunger wasted,
Her courteous looks, her words caressing,
ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S
Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own :
A momentary dream, that thou art she.
My mother! when I learned 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 unseen, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the bearse 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 sound shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return; What ardently I wished, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By disappointment 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 learned 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; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, '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, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,