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Now the angel-songs I hear,
Dying softly on the ear;
Spirit, rise! to thee is given,
The light ethereal wing of heaven.
Dying softly on the ear;
Spirit, rise! to thee is given,
The light ethereal wing of heaven.
Now no more shall virtue faint,
Happy spirit of the saint;
Thine the halo of the skies,
Thine the seraph's paradise.
Happy spirit of the saint;
Thine the halo of the skies,
Thine the seraph's paradise.
SONNET, TO MY MOTHER.
To thee, maternal guardian of my youth,
I pour the genuine numbers free from art;
The lays inspir'd by gratitude and truth,
For thou wilt prize th' effusion of the heart.
Oh! be it mine, with sweet and pious care,
To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief;
With soothing tenderness to chase the tear,
With fond endearments to impart relief.
Be mine thy warm affection to repay
With duteous love in thy declining hours;
My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers,
Perennial roses to adorn thy way:
Still may thy grateful children round thee smile,
Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile.
