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Ah! revel long in childhood's thoughtless joys, With light and pliant spirits, that can stoop To follow, sportively, the rolling hoop; To watch the sleeping top with gay delight, Or mark, with raptured gaze, the failing kite; Or, eagerly pursuing Pleasure's call, Can find it center'd in the bounding ball! Alas! the day will come, when sports like these Must lose their magic, and their power to please; Too swiftly fled, the rosy hours of youth Shall yield their fairy-charms to mournful Truth; 73 Even now, a mother's fond prophetic fearSees the dark train of human ills appear; Views various fortune for each lovely child, Storms for the bold, and anguish for the mild; Beholds already those expressive eyes Beam a sad certainty of future sighs; And dreads each suffering those dear breasts may know In their long passage through a world of woe; Perchance predestined every pang to prove, That treacherous friends inflict, or faithless love; For, ah! how few have found existence sweet, Where grief is sure, but happiness deceit! |
