Thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same that oft in childhood solac'd me,
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes."
Cowper, to his Mother's Picture.
WHAT, in the dim and melancholy gloom
Of this lone chamber, meets my anxious gaze?
I see a tender mother, whose fond arms
Enfold an infant, on whose wasted cheek
The rose of health seems dying. O'er his brow
The delicate blue veins are seen to throb
In languid agony. Its burning heat
Still unallay'd, although, with gentlest touch,
His mother's cool white fingers clasp his brow.
The drooping eye-lids heavily hang down,
But not with slumber, in that torpid doze,
Reposing never. Ah! how powerless
His pale hand falls-yet every feature smiles
With gentlest patience, which incessant pain
Would vainly banish. In the mother's look
How many feelings mingle! I can see
That hope, and firm believing piety,
With agonizing doubt, have struggled long ;
Hard was the conflict, but they overcame;
And a mild trembling confidence in God,
The God of the afflicted, brightens there.
Whose is the shadowy form which dimly lurks
In the dark chamber's far obscurity?
'Tis stealing hither. Ah! I know thee now:
Terrific sovereign! wer't thou then so near?
Must the sweet infant leave that fond embrace
For thy chill circling arms? Breathing corrup-
Must thy foul festering lips be given
For the pure kisses of maternal love?
Nearer, and nearer still, thy deadly shaft
Aimed at th' unconscious infant's naked breastCanst thou not see? Dost thou not feel, sad mother?
Death, Death is near thee, and thy tender child Is all unshielded from his fatal dart.
How canst thou sit unmov'd, unshrinking there, As stupified with woe?
He lives-he lives-an angel guards the child; An angel interposes, shining forth
From the deep shadowy darkness. Thou art
Believing parent, that did'st calmly wait
The present help in time of wretchedness.
Thy chast'ning Heavenly Father hath beheld
Thy soul's sweet patience, and thy humble prayer
Accepted with divine beneficence:
Thine enemy. confounded, skulks away:
Thy child revives; to every branching vein,
Reanimating health again returns.
Sleep is, to him, refreshing slumber now;
Awaking now, he gaily smiles upon thee.
His small cool hand, now raised and lock'd in
Returns thy gentle pressure: soon again
The mask of sickness falling, will display,
Instead of languid eyes, and locks that cling
In spare disorder round that damp pale brow,
Bright laughing glances, breaking wildly forth
From glossy clusters of thick sunny hair.
As, by the moon attracted, ocean tides,
Returning, flood the dreary waste of sand,
And life and beauty gradually revive—.
The ebbing tides of health thus readily
Obey celestial influence, and bring
Back to the wasted frame, declining life.
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