LINES
TO MY CHILDREN.
Written under the Influence of great Depression of Spirits,
11th June, 1819.
Heu! quam minus est reliquis versari, quam vestrum
meminisse.
My babes, no more I behold ye,
Little think ye how he ye once lov'd,
Your father who oft did enfold ye,
With all that a parent e'er proved.
How with many a pang he is saddened,
How many a tear he has shed,
For the eight human blossoms that gladden'd
His path, and his table, and bed.
None knows what a fond parent smothers,
Save he who a parent has been,
Who once more, in his daughters, their mother's,
In his boys has his own image seen!
And who—Can I finish my story?—
Has seen them all shrink from his grasp;
Departed the crown of his glory,
No wife, and no children to clasp!—
By all the dear names I have utter'd,
By all the most sacred caresses,
By the frolicksome nothings I've mutter'd,
In a mood that sheds tears while it blesses;
By the kisses so fond I have given,
By the plump little arm's cleaving twine,
By the bright eye, whose language was heaven,
By the rose on the cheek pressed to mine;
By its warmth that seemed pregnant with spirit;—
By the little feet's fond interlacing,
While others pressed forward to inherit
The place of the one thus embracing;
By the breast that with pleasure was troubled,
Since no words were to speak it availing;
Till the bliss of the heart was redoubled
As in smiles on the lips 'twas exhaling;
By the girl,
who, to sleep when consign'd,
The promised kiss still recollected;
And no sleep on her pillow could find,
If her father's farewel were neglected;
Who asked me, when infancy's terrors
Assail'd her, to sit by her bed;
And for the past day's little errors
On my cheek tears of penitence shed.
By those innocent tears of repentance,
More pure e'en than smiles without sin,
Since they mark with what delicate sentence
Childhood's conscience pronounces within.
By the dear little forms, one by one,
Some in beds closely coupled half-sleeping,
While the cribb'd infant nestled alone—
Whose heads at my coming all peeping,
Betrayed that the pulse of each heart
Of my feet's stealing fall knew the speech;
While all would not let me depart,
Till the kiss was bestowed upon each;
By the boy,
who, when walking and musing,
And thinking myself quite alone,
Would follow the path I was chusing,—
And thrust his dear hand in my own;
(Joy more welcome because unexpected,
By all this fond store of delights,
Which, in sullen mood, had I neglected,
Every curse with which Heaven requites,
Were never sufficient for crushing
A churl so malign and hard-hearted)
But by the warm tears that are gushing,
As I think of the joys that are parted;
Were ye not as the rays that are twinkling
On the waves of some clear haunted stream,
Were ye not as the stars that are sprinkling
Night's firmament dark without them?
My forebodings then hear!—By each one
Of the dear dreams through which I have travell'd,
The cup of enjoyment from none
Can I take, till the spells, one by one,
Which have wither'd ye all, be unravell'd.
