The Massachusetts Spy, And Worcester County Advertiser

Poetry.

A MOTHER'S WISH.

Sweet, smiling cherub! if, for thee,
Indulgent Heaven would grant my prayer,
And might the threads of destiny
Be woven by maternal care,
No golden wishes there should twine
If thy life's web was wrought by me;
Calm, peaceful pleasures should be thine,
From grandeur and ambition free!
I would not ask for courtly grace
Around thy polish'd limbs to play,
Nor beauty's smile to deck thy face,
(Giv'n but to lead some heart astray;)
I would not ask the wreath of Fame
Around thy youthful brow to twine,
Nor that the Statesman's envied name,
And tinsell'd honors should be thine:
Ne'er may War's crimson'd laurels bloom,
To crown thee with a hero's wreath,
(Like roses smiling o'er a tomb,
Horror and death lie hid beneath;)
Nor yet be thine his feverish life,
On whom the fatal Muses smile;
The Poet, like the Indian wife,
Oft lights his own funereal pile!
No! I would ask that Virtue bright
May fix thy footsteps ne'er to stray;
That meek Religion's holy light
May guide thee through life's desert way,
That manly sense and purest truth,
A breast Contentment's chosen shrine,
May, through the slippery paths of youth,
Unstain'd, untarnish'd, still be thine!
That Love's chaste flame, that Friendship's glow,
May kindle in thy generous breast,
That peace, (which greatness ne'er can know)
Be thy calm pillow's nightly guest.
Sweet, smiling infant, if, for thee,
Indulgent Heaven would hear my prayer,
Thus would the web of Destiny
Be woven by a Mother's care.