And while that face renews my filial grief, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss— Ah, that maternal smile! it answers—Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial-day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting sound shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return: What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived ; By disappointment every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Cowper. Aptness of their Power. Still woman draws new power, new empire, still Vice on her bosom lulls remorseful care, And virtue hopes congenial virtue there. Still she most hides the strength that most subdues, Lures by neglect, advances by delay, And gains command by swearing to obey. Lamb. Her Power Disdained. Peace! Let me go, or ere it be too late; Dip not your arrows in the honey-mead; Paint not the wound through which my heart doth bleed Leave me unmock'd, unpitied, to my fate Peace! Let me go. Think you that words can smooth my rugged track? Words heal the stab your soft white hands have made, Or stir the burthen on my bosom laid? Winds shook not earth from Atlas' bended back Peace! Let me go.. What though it be the last time we shall meet— Not this again shall draw me to your feet Peace! Let me go. No laurels from my vanquish'd heart shall wave Cassels. Her Power to soften Man. Her, too, Thou mad'st man's fitting mate. Awful with beauty, on which wait To soften man, and bid him in her see What wondrous cause for love and praise to Thee! Praise of. Bennett. Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine. Cowper. Her Preciousness. The treasures of the deep are not so precious As are the conceal'd comforts of a man Lock'd up in woman's love. Their Preference of Bold Men. Middleton. Women-born to be controll'd- Waller. Her Presence of Mind. While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, Leonidas. Aristocratic Pride of. I grant I am a woman, but withal A woman that lord Brutus took to wife; I grant I am a woman, but withal Shakespeare. From Tuscane came my lady's worthy race; From tender years, in Britain doth she rest Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. Her Pride in her Children. Nor Cybele, with half so kind an eye, |