No mother soothes me in my sorest need.
Yet if kind Heaven will prize that mother's prayer,
Which, incense-like, now rises through the air;
I build my faith—that my last breath will ope
The gate of bliss to my believing hope."
Far mid yon vastest woods, behold a swain.
If small his joy, small is his spirit's pain.
He tills the soil, for him the wild flowers bloom,
And lovely daisies shed their meek perfume.
His happy wife, relieves his every care,