LINES
TO MY MOTHER,
On her attaining her 70th Year.
Oh! with what genuine pleasure do I trace
Each line of that long-lov’d, accustom’d, face,
Where Time, as if enchanted, and imprest
With all the virtues of thy peaceful breast,
Tho’ sev’nty varied years have roll’d away,
Still loves to linger, and, with soft decay,
Permits thy cheek to wear a healthy bloom,
In all the grace of age, without its gloom.
So on some sacred temple’s mossy walls,
With feath’ry force, the snow of winter falls!
Yes, venerable parent! may I long
Thus happy hail thee with an annual song.
Till, having clos’d thine eyes in such soft rest
As infants feel when to the bosom prest,
Angels shall bear thy spotless soul away
To realms of pure delight and endless day!