TO MY MOTHER.
(Written in her sixteenth year.)
O thou whose care sustained my infant years, And taught my prattling lip each note of love; Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears, And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove;
To thee my lay is due, the simple song, Which Nature gave me at life's opening day; To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong, Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay.
O say, amid this wilderness of life, What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me? Who would have smiled responsive? —who in grief, Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee?