 | Memorials of Miss Catherine Maria Fanshawe |  |
56
XVI. SONNET
To my Mother. August, 1789.
Oh thou! who still by piercing woe pursued,
Alone and pensive, pours't thy sorrows here,
Forgive, if on thy griefs I dare intrude,
To wipe from thy lov'd cheek the falling tear.
Dear mourner think!—thy son will weep no more;
His life was spotless, and his death was mild;
And, when this vain delusive life is o'er,
He'll shine a seraph, whom thou lost a child.
Then, as we bend before th' eternal throne,
Oh may'st thou, with exulting accent boast,
“Now shall my children ever be my own,
For none of those thou gavest me are lost.”
With rapture then thou'lt meet th' angelic boy,
And she who sowed in tears shall reap in joy.
Alone and pensive, pours't thy sorrows here,
Forgive, if on thy griefs I dare intrude,
To wipe from thy lov'd cheek the falling tear.
Dear mourner think!—thy son will weep no more;
His life was spotless, and his death was mild;
And, when this vain delusive life is o'er,
He'll shine a seraph, whom thou lost a child.
Then, as we bend before th' eternal throne,
Oh may'st thou, with exulting accent boast,
“Now shall my children ever be my own,
For none of those thou gavest me are lost.”
With rapture then thou'lt meet th' angelic boy,
And she who sowed in tears shall reap in joy.
| Memorials of Miss Catherine Maria Fanshawe | |