On The Receipt Of My Mothers Picture Out Of Norfolk, The Gift Of My Cousin, Ann Bodham.

O that those lips had language! Life has passd     With me but roughly since I heard thee last.     Those lips are thinethy own sweet smile I see,     The same that oft in childhood solaced me;     Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,     Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!     The meek intelligence of those dear eyes     (Blest be the art that can immortalize,     The art that baffles Times tyrannic claim     To quench it) here shines on me still the same.     Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,     O welcome guest, though unexpected here:     Who bidst me honour with an artless song,     Affectionate, a mother lost so long.     I will obey, not willingly alone,     But gladly, as the precept were her own:     And, while that face renews my filial grief,     Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,     Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,     A momentary dream, that thou art she.     My mother! when I learnd that thou wast dead,     Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?     Hoverd thy spirit oer thy sorrowing son,     Wretch even then, lifes journey just begun?     Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss;     Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss     Ah, that maternal smile! it answersYes.     I heard the bell tolld on thy burial day,     I saw the hearse 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 word shall pass my lips no more!     Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,     Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.     What ardently I wishd, I long believed,     And, disappointed still, was still deceived.     By expectation 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 sorrows spent,     I learnd at last submission to my lot,     But, though I less deplored thee, neer 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 wrappd     In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cappd,     Tis now become a history little known,     That once we calld 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 mightst 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 bestowd     By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowd:     All this, and more endearing still than all,     Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall,     Neer roughend by those cataracts and breaks     That humour interposed too often makes;     All this still legible in memorys page,     And still to be so to my latest age,     Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay     Such honours to thee as my numbers may;     Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,     Not scornd in heaven, though little noticed here.     Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,     When, playing with thy vestures tissued flowers,     The violet, the pink, and jessamine,     I prickd them into paper with a pin     (And thou wast happier than myself the while,     Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile),     Could those few pleasant days again appear,     Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?     I would not trust my heartthe dear delight     Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.     But nowhat here we call our life is such,     So little to be loved, and thou so much,     That I should ill requite thee to constrain     Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.     Thou, as a gallant bark from Albions coast     (The storms all weatherd and the ocean crossd),     Shoots into port at some well-havend isle     Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,     There sits quiescent on the floods, that show     Her beauteous form reflected clear below,     While airs impregnated with incense play     Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;     So thou, with sails how swift! hast reachd the shore,     Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;[1]     And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide     Of life long since has anchord by thy side.     But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,     Always from port withheld, always distressd     Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossd,     Sails rippd, seams opening wide, and compass lost,     And day by day some currents thwarting force     Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.     But oh, the thought, that thou art safe, and he!     That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.     My boast is not that I deduce my birth     From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;     But higher far my proud pretensions rise     The son of parents passd into the skies.     And now, farewellTime unrevoked has run     His wonted course, yet what I wishd is done.     By contemplations help, not sought in vain,     I seem to have lived my childhood oer again;     To have renewd the joys that once were mine,     Without the sin of violating thine;     And, while the wings of fancy still are free,     And I can view this mimic show of thee,     Time has but half succeeded in his theft     Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.