BY THE AUTHOR OP THE LIFE OF BURKE, OF GOLDSMITH, &C.,

ON VIEWING MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

How warms the heart when dwelling on that face,
Those lips that mine a thousand times have prest,
The swelling source that nurture gav'st her race,
Where found my infant head its downiest rest!
How in those features aim to trace my own,
Cast in a softer mould my being see;
Recall the voice that sooth'd my helpless moan,
The thoughts that sprang for scarcely aught save me;
That shaped and formed me; gave me to the day,
Bade in her breast absorbing love arise;
O'er me a ceaseless tender care display,
For weak all else to thee maternal ties!
This debt of love but One may claim; no other
Such self-devotion boasts, save thee, my Mother!

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