Alexander Pope: Minor poems | ||
333
LINES TO A FRIEND.
Written at his Mother's Bedside.
While ev'ry Joy, successful Youth! is thine,Be no unpleasing Melancholy mine.
Me long, ah long! may these soft Cares engage;
To rock the Cradle of reposing Age,
With lenient Arts prolong a Parent's Breath,
Make Languor smile, and smooth the Bed of Death.
Me, when the Cares my better Years have shown
Another's Age, shall hasten on my own;
Shall some kind Hand, like B***'s or thine,
Lead gently down, and favour the Decline?
In Wants, in Sickness, shall a Friend be nigh,
Explore my Thought, and watch my asking Eye?
Whether that Blessing be deny'd, or giv'n,
Thus far, is right; the rest belongs to Heav'n.
Alexander Pope: Minor poems | ||