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ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine,---thine own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 'Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away! The meek intelligence of those dear eyes, (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it,) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bid'st me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief;
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead, Say wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss. Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.

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