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"The proud man's contumely, th' oppressor's wrong," languid despondency and vain regret, Must my exhausted spirit struggle yet? Yes! Robb'd myself, of all that fortune gave, Even of all Hope, but shelter in the grave, Still shall the plaintive lyre essay its powers To dress the Cave of Care, with Fancy's flowers, Maternal Love, the fiend Despair withstand, Still animate the heart and guide the hand. Escape the evils I was born to bear! Round my devoted head, while tempest roll, Yet there, where I have treasur'd up my soul, 87 May the soft rays of dawning hope impartReviving Patience to my fainting heart; And, when it sharp solicitudes shall cease, May I be conscious in the realms of peace That every tear which swells my children's eyes, From sorrows past, not present ills arise. Then, with some friend who loves to share your pain, For 'tis my boast that some such friends remain, By filial grief, and fond remembrance prest, You'll seek the spot where all my sorrows rest; Recall my hapless days in sad review, The long calamities I bore for you, And with an happier fate resolve to prove How well you merited your mother's love. |
