The lips that whisper’d in their infant ear;
The eyes that often shed affection’s tear.
I speak of Christian mothers. There are those
Who lead the way in folly’s mad career,
Who never speak of Heaven’s blest repose,
Or tell in accents sweet, of Sharon’s deathless Rose.
IX.
How often, in the tender sprouting time
Of early youth, the plant receives a blight!
Or the young vine, that upward loves to climb,