To cherish her who made thee blest.
But now, to thee no more appears
This light of thy declining years;
No more her smile brings joy to thee,
When tempest toss'd on life's rough sea.
Fond mother, where's the rosy child
Which once upon thy bosom smiled?—
In her thou daily didst rejoice,—
She caught her language from thy voice;
When she had learned to lisp thy name,