ADDRESSED TO MRS. FRANCES PRESTON,
ACCEPT a heart, my dearest girl,
That faithful, fond, and true,
In Season's change, and Fortune's whirl,
Shall ever doat on you.
Sure, if your heart with mine accords,
This truth I need not tell :
No human tongue, no pow'r of words
Can picture what I feel.-
My morning thoughts, my nightly dream,
The subject of each pray'r-
Have I a wish, a hope, a scheme,
Where Fanny does not share?
If you but half the passion prove,
That dwells within my heart,
To me may gracious powers above
A length of days impart :
But if within your gentle breast,
Indifference holds her reign,
Soon let me find, in endless rest,
A kind relief from pain.
Written on the Commencement of the New Year, 1804, and inscribed to Mrs. Frances Preston.
WELCOME New Year-farewel the past-
May this be happy, as the last!
A pang, a fear, we sometimes knew,
Yet still on wings of down it flew.
The future might in prospect frown;
Yet, still the present was our own.-
May Health arise, with airy wing,
And usher in th' enamell'd Spring;
And may our children feel it's power,
And rise, and blossom, like the flow'r;
While Competence her blessing sheds,
And smooths the pillow for our heads.
My Fanny, thrice five circling years,
Has shar'd my sorrows, hopes, and fears,
The constant friend, the tender wife,
Thro' sunshine, and thro' storms, of life.-
Long may our peaceful union last,
As little chequer'd as the past !—
Long may we sit beside the hearth,
And contemplate our children's mirth!
Long may they recompence, and share
The plastic hand, the parent's care!
Thou canst not think, what pride of heart
Our six young olive plants impart :
The only treasure we can boast,
The gems that deck a mother most,
The branches that our board adorn,
As fresh, and hopeful, as the morn !--
Their forms how fair! how bright their eyes,
As clear and blue as cloudless skies!
In these, why should my Fanny find
A gloomy thought to vex the mind?
Each darling animated toy,
Be sacred all, to Love and Joy !—
Yet-when they croud our knees around,
And eager cries of mirth resound;
When, thoughtless as the birds, and gay,
They skim-they glance-in airy play;
I well can read your moisten'd eyes,
How, mix'd with transport, fears arise.-
While fond maternal care debates
Their present health, their future fates,
Foreboded wants, imagin'd ill,
With mournful apprehension fill.
In thought, you see them push from shore,
Without a compass, sail, or oar.—
You see them on the billows ride,
Conflicting with the wind and tide.-
Dismiss the fond solicitude,
It seems to doubt that Heav'n is good.
Trust me, these innocents shall
The care of universal love.
Shall he, that feeds the plumy race,
And ev❜n the savage beast of chace,
That leans, indulgent from the sky,
To hear the raven's youngling cry:
Shall he withhold his guardian care,
From beings harmless, sweet, and fair?
He bids the dew from Heav'n distil,
And every plant with nurture fill,
He sends the sunshine, and the rain,
With springing herbs to cloath the plain,
And not a tree, and not a flow'r,
But owns the Maker's bounteous pow'r.
If he, the general care to show,
Bids ev'n the thorn and hemlock grow;
Shall not these polish'd plants demand
Support from his parental hand;
In health, and strength, to bid them spring,
And timely fruits of manhood bring?
Our children, surely, will deserve
A blessing from the God we serve.
Meantime, the true maternal part
To virtue trains the tender heart;
That each an off'ring may be giv'n,
A servant to the King of Heav'n.
One portion, sure, we can bestow,
The free-born thought, the virtuous glow,
Th' impression of the Maker's law,
That fills the soul with pious awe.
-This done, the rest to Heav'n resign;
And let the present hour be thine.
Our bounded means exemption grant,
From cumb'rous wealth, and sordid want.
Why should we fear the stroke of fate,
Whose manners quadrate with our state?
We rush not on with vain expence!
Nor ape a neighbour's opulence.
Contented shall our being steal,
Thro' home-bred joys, and temperate meal;
Nor wistful look abroad, to find
An envious pang to gnaw the mind.
And may the storms of fate we prove,
By mutual aid encrease our love!
As Mariners, that gain the shore,
On broken plank, or floating oar,
When now they find the danger past,
In rapture strain each other fast.
BY THE LATE REV. W. B. STEVENS.
SWEET Star of Evening, Venus' golden light,
Divinest image in the fane of Night,
Lov'd Vesper, whose bright rays as far outshine
Heav'ns other gems, as Luna's lustre thine,
Hail genial orb! and with auspicious beam,
(For lo! fair LUNA wanes with dying gleam)
Illume my path; who with no guilty aim,
Thy soft beneficence of splendour claim.
Not of their train am I, whose felon toil
Makes the night-wilder'd traveller their spoil,
Love, Love alone, my wandering step has mov'd,
Shine out, sweet STAR! a lover should be lov'd.
|