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Teaching the eye to flow, the heart to beat.
The knee that never bent to bend in prayer:
Kind nurse of life, how much we owe thy pow'r!
To thee we owe it, that our feeble race,
More helpless than the brutes, are not like them
Suffer'd to perish. 'Tis thy secret hand
That lifts the young mind like some sickly plant
To see the light, to taste the dews of heaven,
To feel the sun-beams, shielding its soft leaves
From chill unkindness, that dire frost of life;
Propping its stalk, and cherishing its buds;
Leading the fragrant waters to its root,
And taking thence the noxious weeds, that seek
To drink its moisture, withering every hope.
O pure affection! waken'd with the sigh
Of infancy—still wheresoe’er I go
Cheer my lone spirit, and Oh, suffer not
My numerous errors to abate thy glow,
Warmer than friendship, and more fix'd than love.
