My Bible, scarcely dare I open thee!
Remembering how each eve I wont to give
Thy due texts holily, while She did live,
The pious Woman!-What tho' for the meek
Thou treasurest glad tidings, still to me
Of her I lov'd thou dost so plainly speak,
And kindling virtue dost so amply tell
Of her most virtuous, that 'twere hard to quell
The
pang which thou wilt wake! Yet, hallow'd
book,
Tho' for a time my bosom thou wilt wring,
Thy great and precious promises will bring
Best consolation! Come then, I will look
In thy long-clasped volume, there to find
Haply, tho' lost her form, my best friend's mind!
WHEN from my dreary home I first mov'd on,
After my Friend was in her grave-clothes drest,
A dim despondence on my spirit prest,
As all my pleasant days were come and gone!
Strange whispers parted from th' entombing clay,
The thin air murmur'd, each dumb object
spake,
Bidding my overwhelmed bosom ache: Oft did I look to Heaven, but could not pray! "How shall I leave thee, quiet scene?" said I, "How leave the passing breeze that loves to
"The holy sod where my due footsteps creep? "The passing breeze? 'Twas She! The Friend pass'd by !"
But the time came; the passing breeze I left;
"Farewell!" I sigh'd, and seem'd of all bereft!
OH, She was almost speechless! nor could hold
Awakening converse with me! (I shall bless
No more the modulated tenderness
Of that dear voice!) Alas, 'twas shrunk and cold,
Her honour'd face! yet, when I sought to speak,
Through her half-open'd eye-lids She did send
Faint looks, that said "I would be yet thy
friend!"
And (Oh, my choak'd breast!) e'en on that
shrunk cheek
I saw one slow tear roll! my hand She took,
Placing it on her heart-I heard her sigh,
""Tis too, too much!" "Twas Love's last agony!
I tore me from Her! Twas her latest look,
Her latest accents-Oh, my heart, retain
That look, those accents, till we meet again!
As o'er the dying embers oft I cower,
When my tir'd spirits rest, and my heart swells
Lull'd by domestic quiet, Mem'ry dwells
On that blest tide, when thou the evening hour
Didst gladden while upon th' accustom'd
I look, it seems as if Thou wert still there:
Kirtled in snowy apron thy dear knees,
Propt on the fender'd hearth my fancy sees,
O'er which exchanging souls we wont to bend!
And as I lift my head, thy features send
A cheering smile to me-but, in its flight
O'er my rain-pelted sash, a blast of night
Sweeps surlily! starting, my fancy creeps
To the bleak dwelling where thy cold corse
sleeps!
Written on a FRIDAY, the Day in each Week formerly devoted by the Author and his Bro
thers and Sisters to the Society of their Grandmother.
THIS is the day we children wont to go
In best attire, with gay high-swelling hearts,
And infant pride, to the belov'd repast
Of her, our reverenc'd Grandmother! the time
By us, delighted infants, still was call'd
An holiday! E'en ere the shadowy morn
Peep'd dimly thro' our half-drawn curtains, we
Would tell each other of the day, and hail
With one accord, and interchange of soul,
The heartsome festival of home-born love!
Our matin task, with o'ercharg'd restless souls That wearily suppress'd joy's giddiness, How ill perform'd! Learning's dull mockery o'er, How did we shout, and rend the air with cries Of glad deliverance! For the hour was come,
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