Sonnet to My Mother.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF TWELVE.
To thee, maternal guardian of my youth,
I pour the genuine numbers free from art—
The lays inspired by gratitude and truth;
For thou wilt prize the effusion of the heart.
Oh! be it mine, with sweet and pious care,
To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief;
With soothing tenderness to chase the tear,
With fond endearments to impart relief:
Be mine thy warm affection to repay
With duteous love in thy declining hours;
My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers,
Perennial roses, to adorn thy way:
Still may thy grateful children round thee smile—
Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile.