To My Mother

If e’er from human bliss or woe
I feel the sympathetic glow;
If e’er my heart has learn’d to know
The generous wish or prayer;
Who sow’d the germ with tender hand?
Who mark’d its infant leaves expand?--
My mother’s fostering care.
And if one flower of charms refined
May grace the garden of my mind,
’Twas she who nursed it there:
She loved to cherish and adorn
Each blossom of the soil;
To banish every weed and thorn
That oft opposed her toil!

And oh! if e’er I sigh’d to claim
The palm, the living palm of fame,
The glowing wreath of praise;
If e’er I wish’d the glittering stores
That Fortune on her favourite pours;
’Twas but that wealth and fame, if mine,
Round thee with streaming rays might shine,
And gild thy sun-bright days!

Yet not that splendour, pomp, and power
Might then irradiate every hour;
For these, my mother! well I know,
On thee no raptures could bestow;--
But could thy bounty, warm and kind,
Be, like thy wishes, unconfined,
And fall as manna from the skies,
And bid a train of blessings rise,
Diffusing joy and peace;
The tear-drop, grateful, pure, and bright,
For thee would beam with softer light
Than all the diamond’s crystal rays,
Than all the emerald’s lucid blaze;
And joys of heaven would thrill thy heart
To bid one bosom-grief depart,
One tear, one sorrow cease!

Then, oh! may Heaven, that loves to bless,
Bestow the power to cheer distress;
Make thee its minister below,
To light the cloudy path of woe;
To visit the deserted cell,
Where indigence is doom’d to dwell;
To raise, when drooping to the earth,
The blossoms of neglected worth;
And round, with liberal hand, dispense
The sunshine of beneficence!
But ah! if Fate should still deny
Delights like these, too rich and high;
If grief and pain thy steps assail,
In life’s remote and wintry vale;
Then, as the wild Æolian lyre
Complains with soft entrancing number,
When the lone storm awakes the wire,
And bids enchantment cease to slumber;
So filial love, with soothing voice,
E’en then shall teach thee to rejoice;
E’en then shall sweeter, milder sound,
When sorrow’s tempest raves around;
While dark misfortune’s gales destroy,
The frail mimosa-buds of hope and joy!