Forgive and Forget.
FORGIVE and forget! why the world would be lonely, The garden a wilderness left to deform,
If the flowers but remembered the chilling winds only,
And the fields gave no verdure for fear of the storm!
Oh! still in thy loveliness emblem the flowers, Give the fragrance of feeling to sweeten life's way!
And prolong not again the brief cloud of an hour, With tears that but darken the rest of the day.
Forgive and forget! there's no breast so unfeeling,
But some gentle thoughts of affection there live; And the best of us all require something concealing, Some heart that with smiles can forget and forgive!
Then away with the cloud from those beautiful eyes!
That brow was no home for such frowns to have
Oh! how could our spirits e'er hope for the skies, If Heaven refused to forgive and forget!
Cowper's Address to his 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-thy 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,
(Blessed 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,
Oh, welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who biddest 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 learned 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.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such?—It was—where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived.
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus, many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more:
Children, not thine, have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener, Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all the kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced,
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,—
The biscuit, or confectionary plum,
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed: All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this, still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so till my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may :
Perhaps, a frail memorial, but sincere ;
Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with my vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, Would softly speak and stroke my head and smile,)
Could those few days of bliss again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might―
But no-what here we call our life, is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
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