To My Mother

IF e'er for human bliss or woe I feel the sympathetic glow; If e'er my heart has learn'd to know The gen'rous wish or pray'r; Who sow'd the germ, with tender hand? Who mark'd its infant-leaves expand? My mother's fost'ring care. And if one flow'r of charms refin'd May grace the garden of my mind; 'Twas she who nurs'd it there: She lov'd to cherish and adorn Each blossom of the soil; To banish ev'ry weed and thorn, That oft oppos'd her toil! And, oh! if e'er I've sigh'd to claim The palm, the living palm of fame, The glowing wreath of praise; If e'er I've wish'd the glitt'ring stores, That fortune on her fav'rite pours; 'Twas but, that wealth and fame, if mine, Round thee, with streaming rays might shine, And gild thy sun-bright days! Yet not that splendor, pomp, and pow'r, Might then irradiate ev'ry hour; For these, my mother! well I know, On thee no raptures could bestow; But could thy bounty, warm and kind, Be, like thy wishes, unconfin'd; And fall, as manna from the skies, And bid a train of blessings rise, Diffusing joy and peace; The tear-drop, grateful, pure and bright, For thee would beam with softer light, Than all the diamond's crystal rays, Than all the emerald's lucid blaze; And joys of heav'n would thrill thy heart, To bid one bosom-grief depart, One tear, one sorrow cease! Then, oh! may heav'n, that loves to bless, Bestow the pow'r to cheer distress; Make thee its minister below, To light the cloudy path of woe; To visit the deserted cell, Where indigence is doom'd to dwell; To raise, when drooping to the earth, The blossoms of neglected worth; And round, with lib'ral hand dispense, The sunshine of beneficence! But, ah! if fate should still deny Delights like these, too rich and high; If grief and pain thy steps assail, In life's remote and wintry vale; Then, as the wild Eolian lyre, Complains with soft, entrancing number, When the loud storm awakes the wire, And bids enchantment cease to slumber; So filial love, with soothing voice, E'en then, shall teach thee to rejoice; E'en then, shall sweeter, milder sound, When sorrow's tempest raves around; While dark misfortune's gales destroy, The frail, mimosa-buds of hope and joy!