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Or hear what fond parental love might say,
Ere its last sigh convulsive died away.
Yet oft before my eyes, this scene will glow,
And wake the tho'ts that only wake to woe;
And then it seems as if a distant knell,
Sigh'd on the passing gale—'farewell—farewell.'
And if at griefs like these, the soul should melt,
You will not wonder, who yourselves have felt;
Then ask not why I mourn departed bliss,
No heart is cold to such a claim as this.
Yet not to shade the cheerful face with gloom,
Or draw one tear from youth's fair eye I come:
Ah! no, my friends beloved, companions true,
I rise a mournful monitor to you.
While fragrant flowers your op'ning path array,
And fond paternal love your toils repay;
While from those hands such untold favours flow,
Recount your debt, and muse on what you owe.
The deeds of love, the thousand nameless fears,
That mark'd the progress of your infant years;
The patient hand, forgetful of its toil,
Ev'n though it till'd a cold, or stubborn soil;
The anxious heart that thrill'd with ceaseless pain,
Lest you should make its future presage vain;
The eye that often wak'd, and watch'd, and wept,
While you have wandered, or while you have slept;
