Upon whose bosom its soft form reclines, 590
Sheltered from gathering clouds, and rending winds.
Ye!—who hang o’er these blossoms of your love,
And trust to see them perfected above,
Say—can ye gaze upon your happy home,
A mother’s hopes, and quiet pleasures own; 595
From infancy’s soft lips that dear name hear,
Its half-formed accents blessed to your ear!
And sweet its cares implied, nor turn to those
Who bear—in poverty—a mother’s woes?