Of sweet enchanting scenes in view,
Of future times and faithful friends.
Tho’ my sweet William, prattling youth,
For bread oft begs in accents meek;
Matilda, fairest flower of truth,
Droops on my breast her dew-dipt cheek.
Tho’ the big tears run down my face
To see her aspect wan and mild,
And hear her lov’d affection trace
My care-mark’d features in our child.