LINES TO AN OLD LADY.
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To whose creating hand their mutual birth
Nature and man alike their being owe,—
Nature and man alike their being owe,—
Should call thee hence to that eternal home,
That better country, where thy treasures lie,
Where spring shall flourish in immortal bloom,
And time, and age, and pain, and death shall die,
That better country, where thy treasures lie,
Where spring shall flourish in immortal bloom,
And time, and age, and pain, and death shall die,
These fair mementos, grateful to the eye,
To memory shall their pleasing aid impart;
But these frail flowers may wither, fade, and die,—
Not so thy sweet remembrance in my heart.
To memory shall their pleasing aid impart;
But these frail flowers may wither, fade, and die,—
Not so thy sweet remembrance in my heart.
Yes, while they lived they might soothe my regret;
Their fragrance would recall thy piety;
Yet think not I can e'er thy worth forget,
Or need their aid to love thy memory.
Their fragrance would recall thy piety;
Yet think not I can e'er thy worth forget,
Or need their aid to love thy memory.
