Poetry Archives

And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think
  That we, thy children, when old age shall shed
  Its blanching honours on thy weary head,
Could from our best of duties ever shrink?
Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink
  Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day,
  To pine in solitude thy life away,
Or shun thee, tottering on the grave’s cold brink.
Banish the thought!—where’er our steps may roam,
  O’er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,
  Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee,
And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;
While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage,
And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.