The New York Packet

THE MOURNING MOTHER.

FROM Heaven's high concave, where serenely mild
The eye of mercy beams upon the blest,
Look down O sainted spirits of my child,
And view the anguish in the parent's breast
Yet rather turn from misery and woe,
Thou dearest offspring of connubial love,
Nor let a mother's wretchedness below
A moment dim thy happiness above.
Short-sighted reason, ignorantly vain,
Who in the womb of distant time could see
Or think I ever could have felt a pain
From that which gave felicity to thee.
Maternal fondness frequently would rise
To that extreme, that wonderful degree,
That scarce I sent an accent to the skies,
But what was sent in tenderness for thee.
Each beam of genius open and refined
With what exquisite transport would I trace
And mark how each expression of the mind
Soar'd up at once to dignity and grace.
Come memory, come all tortur'd, and declare
What souls like mine shall never cease to know.
For anguish finds a pleasure to despair,
And brood on all her amplitude of woe.
Pardon just Heav'n, for where the heart is torn,
The human drop of bitterness will steal,
Nor can we lose the privilege to mourn,
While we have left the faculty to feel.
Religion come, thou sire of the skies,
And quickly lift the salutary rod,
Nor let this daring argument of sighs
So boldly tax the justice of my God.
The ways of Heaven though seldom understood,
Are still entitled to our highest trust,
Though seeming dark, are bountiful and good,
And though severe, are merciful and just.
Make me then, Omnipotent, resigned,
Thy awful fiat humbly to receive,
And O forgive the weakness of the mind,
Which feels as mortal, and as such must grieve.