To Mrs. Anne Blacklock, the Author's Mother.
[_]
With a Copy of the Scotch Edition of his Poems.
O thou! who gav'st me first this world t' explore,
Whose frame, for me, a mother's anguish bore;
For me, whose heart its vital current drain'd,
Whose bosom nurs'd me, and whose arms sustain'd:
What tho' thy son, dependent, weak, and blind,
Deplore his wishes check'd, his hopes confin'd?
Tho' want, impending, cloud each chearless day,
And death with life seem struggling for their prey?
Let this console, if not reward, thy pain,
Unhappy he may live, but not in vain.