Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse/To a Friend 1
TO A FRIEND,
Whose correspondence had been interrupted by domestic occupations, and the various cares of a matron.
THUS ancient matrons, high in virtue rais'd,
Whom princes honoured, and whom sages prais'd,
Like you, the needle's various labours taught,
And in the loom, and at the distaff wrought;
Hence, spoils of industry adorn'd their home,
And with new lustre glow'd the arts of Rome.
Ah! sweeter far, o'er such a charge to bend,
To calm domestic life, a joy to lend,
Than cloth'd in royal robes, the guise of pain,
To wield a sceptre o'er the shrinking train;
Toss on the wave of pow'r, or dictate proud,
Or rule the fancies of a fickle crowd;
Or pass in fields of blood the deathful day,
Urge on the battle, point the fierce array,
Drive over fallen ranks the reeking car,
Rage, toil, and revel mid the din of war;
Renounce each female grace, each soft intent,
To snatch the prize, that nature never meant,
To win a short applause, to build a name,
To grasp the fleeting shade of sullied fame;
Gleam o'er the historic page, as meteors move,
To claim our wonder, not awake our love.
Oh, sweeter far, in shades obscure to hide,
Where meek content, and piety reside,
Where heaven-born virtue sheds a lucid ray,
And intellectual joys inspire the day,
While o'er the scene no waves of discord roll,
To quench the light of mercy in the soul.
And sweet like thee, dear friend, with pensive eyes,
To watch the plants of reason as they rise;
Hang o'er your clusters, like the bending vine,
And teach the infant tendril where to twine;
Guard from the mildew's taint, the frost severe,
Repel the noxious weed that ventures near;
Lead the young leaves to lift their drooping heads,
And drink the purest dew, that evening sheds;
Curb the aspiring shoots that mount too high,
Lest in the blast the forward hope should die;
To turn the clear stream to the spreading root,
Catch the first promise of a grateful fruit;
Bind the young buds, whose stalks the winds have riven,
And prune the boughs, and point their way to heaven.
But who can paint the thrill of extacy,
With which a mother meets her babes on high?
Perchance the tempest's rage, with furious strife,
Had driven them darkly o'er the sea of life;
Perchance the shafts of death, that ceaseless rove,
Had early pierc'd the brittle band of love;
Perchance the wide-stretch'd zone, or Ocean waves,
Had roll'd between their long-divided graves;
Now safely scap'd from earth's delusive shore,
Now join'd in glory to divide no more,
What mortal hand can touch that raptur'd string,
Whose high-rais'd tones salute th' Eternal King?
"Lo! these are they whom thou to me didst trust,
These souls immortal, then enshrin'd in dust;
I took them trembling, at thy high decree,
Receive, instruct, and render back to me."
Thoughtful I strove with mild affection's sway,
To blend with reason's dawn, religious ray;
To smooth the path of duty, lure the course
Of those fair streams up to their parent source;
By night, my waking thoughts on these were bent,
By day, to thee, the fervent prayer was sent,
That the bright star of heaven might light their eyes,
And e'vn in youth their wayward hearts be wise;
But vain had been the anxious, watchful care,
In vain the ceaseless, fond maternal prayer,
Had not a viewless power with love divine,
Matur'd the work, and crown'd the great design.