Serenely mild behold the lowering storm.
I'd be the partner of thy infant cares,
And pour instruction o'er thy expanding mind;
Whilst in thy heart, in my declining years,
My wearied soul should an asylum find.
My wrongs—my cares—should be forgot with thee,
My power—imperial dignities—renown—
This rock itself would be a heaven to me;
Thine arms more cherished than the victor's crown.
O! in thine arms, my son! I could forget that fame