VOLUME I
[TO MY CHILDREN]
O'erwhelm'd with sorrow—and sustaining long
'The proud man's contumely, the oppressor's wrong,'
Languid despondency, and vain regret,
Must my exhausted spirit struggle yet?
Yes! robb'd myself of all that Fortune gave,
Of every hope—but shelter in the grave;
Still shall the plaintive lyre essay it's powers,
And dress the cave of Care, with Fancy's flowers;
Maternal love, the fiend Despair withstand,
Still animate the heart and guide the hand.
May you, dear objects of my tender care!
Escape the evils, I was born to bear:
Round my devoted head, while tempests roll,
Yet there—'where I have treasured up my soul,'
May the soft rays of dawning hope impart
Reviving patience to my fainting heart;
And, when it's sharp anxieties shall cease,
May I be conscious, in the realms of peace,
That every tear which swells my children's eyes,
From evils past, not present sorrows, rise.
Then, with some friend who loves to share your pain,
(For 'tis my boast, that still such friends remain,)
By filial grief, and fond remembrance prest,
You'll seek the spot where all my miseries rest,
Recall my hapless days in sad review,
The long calamities I bore for you,
And, with an happier fate, resolve to prove
How well ye merited your mother's love!