Constitutional Whig

THE MOTHER.

Never may that thoughtless, heartless thing
No painted gossamer of Fashion's bower,
E'er take the hymeneal ring,
To usurp a mother's tender power; -
Ah for her to roll the giddy eye,
Careless and sparkle in the midnight hour-
Her feeble infant's pleading cry.
Turn not away thine ear, but list
To mark the withering of that blighted flow'r.
Dost thou to menial vice and skilless care
Entrust the sweet babe that nestling seeks thy breast
Stung, is't being?--Fragile as 'tis fair
And in its own endearing weakness blest--
Canst thou do this, and smile? Why dost thou live
A glowing sense of such deep guilt opprest
No one sinner only can forgive,
Her parent whom e'en friends detest.
Know thy error--know to thee
Art thou human--sin, and age, advance:
Thy blooming cheek shall fade--those bright eyes see
Beauties far outshine their warning glances
Those light limbs her hand shall lay,
In destroy'r of Life's young romance
Couple thee, with the old and gray
In thy place in Death's terrific dance.
Fear not then, that kindly pious friend
Soothe thy suff'ring hour with prayer;
O'er thy couch in sympathy shall bend
The tender husband, or the sorrowing child.
Other guests on that dread scene encroach,
No longer now neglected or revil'd
Are worse, and ceaseless self-reproach,
They howl in fierce revenge their descant wild.