My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son,—
Wretch even then, life’s 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 answers—Yes.
I heard the bell tolled 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 wished 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 sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne’er 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 wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped,
’Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call’d the pastoral house[337-3] our own.
Shortlived 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 confectionery plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow’d
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow’d;
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne’er roughen’d by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour[338-4] interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory’s 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[338-5] may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorn’d in Heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture’s tissued[338-6] flowers,
The violet, the pink, the jessamine,
I prick’d them into paper with a pin,[338-7]
(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 heart,—the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
But no,—what 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 bounds again.
Thou—as a gallant bark, from Albion’s[339-8] coast,
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,)
Shoots into port at some well-havened 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 reached the shore
“Where tempests never beat nor billows roar”:
And thy loved consort[339-9] on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me,[339-10] scarce hoping to attain the rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed,—
Me[339-10] howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost;[339-11]
And day by day some current’s thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet O, the thought that thou art safe, and he!—[339-12]
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned,[339-13] and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise,—
The son of parents passed into the skies.
And now, farewell!—Time, unrevoked,[340-14] has run
His wonted course; yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation’s help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o’er again,—
To have renewed 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.
[335-1] As though the request were her own.
[335-2] The Elysian Fields were the blessed lands of beauty and joy to which the Greeks hoped to go at their death.
[337-3] The pastoral house means the rectory, the home of the clergyman.
[338-4] Humour here means temper.
[338-5] Numbers is used for poetic measures; poetry.
[338-6] Tissued is a poetic word for variegated.
[338-7] He pricked into paper with a pin the outlines of the variegated forms of violets, pinks and jessamine that decorated his mother’s dress.