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THE MOTHER.

Ah! never may that thoughtless, heartless thing,

The painted gossamer of Fashion's bow'r,Presume to take the hymeneal ring,

Or dare usurp a Mother's tender pow'r;—Enough for her to " roll the giddy eye,"

To dance, and sparkle, in the midnight hour—Unheard her feeble infant's pleading cry,

Unmark'd the withering of that blighted flow'r.

Canst thou to menial vice and skilless care

Leave the sweet babe that nestling seeks thybreast,Its home, its being ?—Fragile as 'tis fair,

And in its own endearing weakness blest—Canst thou do this, and smile ? nay, canst thou live

Beneath the sense of such deep guilt opprest ?—Guilt which one sinner only can forgive,

The pander parent, whom e'en friends detest.h2