True Honour

The painter's skill life's lineaments may trace,
And stamp the impress of a speaking face;
The chisel's touch may make that marble warm
Which glows with all but breathing manhood's form —
But deeper lines, beyond the sculptor's art,
Are those which write their impress on the heart.
On Taefourd's page what bright memorials glow
Of all that's noblest, gentlest, best below!
Thou generous brother, guard of griefs conceal'd,
Matured by sorrow, deep but unreveal'd,
Let me but claim, for all thy vigils here,
The noiseless tribute to a heart sincere.
Though Dryburgh's walls still hold their sacred dust,
And Stratford's chancel shrines its hallow'd trust,
To Elia's grave the pilgrim shall repair,
And hang with love perennial garlands there.
And thou, great bard of never-dying name,
Thy filial care outshines the poet's fame;
For who, that wanders by the dust of Ghat
While memory tolls the knell of parting day,
But lingers fondly at the hallow'd tomb,
That shrouds a parent in its pensive gloom,
To bless the son who pour'd that gushing tear,
So warm and earnest, at a mother's bier!
Wreaths for that line which woman's tribute gave,
"Last at the cross, and earliest at the grave."
Can I forget, a pilgrim o'er the sea,
The countless shrines of woman's charity?
In thy gay capital, bewildering France,
Where Pleasure's shuttle weaves the whirling dartee,
Beneath the shelter of St. Mary's dome,
Where pallid Suffering seeks and finds a home,
Methinks I see that sainted sister now
Wipe Death's cold dewdrops from an infant's brow;
Can I forget that mild, seraphic grace,
With heaven-eyed Patience meeting in her face?
Ah! sure, if angels leave celestial spheres,
We saw an angel dry a mortal's tears.