SONNETS. 135 



SONNET TO MY MOTHER. 



And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think 

 That we, thy children, when old age shall shed 

 Its blanching honours on thy weary head, 



Could from our best of duties ever shrink? 



Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink 

 Than Ave ungrateful, leave thee in that day, 

 To pine in solitude thy life away, 



Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. 



Banish the thought— where'er our steps may roam. 

 O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree. 

 Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, 



And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home ; 

 While duty bids us all tby griefs assuage, 

 And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age. 



SONNET. 



Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile, 



Sweet the wdld music of the laughing Spring ; 

 But, ah ! my soul, far other scenes beguile. 



Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling. 

 Is it for me to strike the Idalian string — 



Raise the soft music of the warbling wire, 

 While in my ears the howls of furies ring, 



And melancholy wastes the vital fire ? 

 Away with thoughts like these. To some lone cave 



Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps the 

 wave, 

 Direct my steps ; there, in the lonely drear, 



I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse, 



Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse, 

 And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear. 



