University of Virginia Library

LINES WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.

Lovely darlings! can you dry
The sweat-drops from your father's brow?
Can you wipe his faded eye,
Sunk with pain and sickness low?
Oh! my little prattling boy,
Gladly thou would'st ease my pain;
Pleased, would'st give thy father joy,
But thy infant arts are vain.
Must I leave you here to mourn,
With a mother deep distress'd,
While I to the dust am borne,
Where this aching head shall rest?
Yes! methinks I hear you say,
“Mother, when will father come?
“Why is he so long away,
“Nor brings his weekly wages home?”

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Must I leave you?—O thou Pow'r
Supreme! who seest the orphan's tears,
Guard them through each infant hour,
Watch them in maturer years!