LINES TO MY MOTHER,

Oh! with what genuine pleasure do I trace

Each line of that long-lov'd, accustom'd, face,

Where Time, as if enchanted, and imprest

With all the virtues of thy peaceful breast,

Tho’ sev'nty varied years have roll'd away,

Still loves to linger, and, with soft decay,

Permits thy cheek to wear a healthy bloom,

In all the grace of age, without its gloom.

So on some sacred temple's mossy walls,

With feath'ry force, the snow of winter falls!

Yes, venerable parent! may I long

Thus happy hail thee with an annual song.

Till, having clos'd thine eyes in such soft rest

As infants feel when to the bosom prest,

Angels shall bear thy spotless soul away

To realms of pure delight and endless day!