And from amidst the scenes that flit around,

Is there a sight more welcome to the heart
Than a fond mother hovering o'er her babe,
And with a joy, to mothers only known,
Chasing away each cause of slightest ill?

Oh how can language paint the troubled mind,
The trembling hope, the dark foreboding fears
Which in a mother's breast alternate strove,
When to the mercy of the floating stream
She dared commit the offspring of her womb,
The future saviour of the Hebrew race?

And say, what lustre sparkled in her eyes
When, Heaven directed, Pharaoh's daughter sought
The sweet refreshment of the cooling wave,
And saw the lovely infant struggling there?
Compassion, inmate of the female breast,
Prompted to save, what tyranny condemn'd.

Maternal love! sweet source of boundless good, How dost thou shed through all the hours of life Rays that illumine to its latest day,

Though scarcely seen amid a bustling world?

How many heroes that adorn her page?
How many minds intent on human weal,
Were form'd beneath the tender fostering hand

Of a fond mother's kind, unwearied care?
Who saw the opening foliage promise well,
And with solicitous emotions fraught,

Nursed the young plant to vigour and to fame.

Bright gem of sorrow, blest maternal tear, That fond affection urges from its source, And bids adown the rustic cheek to flow; I've seen thy briny currents sparkle there, And thence emit as clear, as pure a ray, When a griev'd parent wail'd a child in death, As e'er bedew'd the eye of wealth or power Mourning an only son, an heir entomb'd: 'Twas in a vale, where art with nature join'd To pour its richest stores, its choicest sweets, And oft the loved resort of me and mine, But more of one, whose amity is fame,

Who taught me first to seek this calm retreat;

A rustic pair from year to year had lived

Blest with small competence, and that obtain'd
With industry and care pleased they beheld

A numerous progeny around them rise;
Till death, relentless, bent his fatal bow,
And call'd a maid of fairest promise home.
I well remember, I would ne'er forget
How the fond mother told the piercing tale,
And forced the springs of sympathy to flow.

Injured Matilda! Denmark's murder'd Queen,
Whose hapless fate awakes each Briton's tear:
Thy home invaded at the midnight hour,
The lovely decencies of life infring'd;

Forced from the splendors of thy rightful throne,
To the dank vapours of the prison's bound,
The solitary tenant of a cell:

Yet through the gloomy horrors of the scene
How did thy bosom leap with rapturous joy
At the known sound of thy Louisa's voice;
Prest to thy bosom in the fond embrace,
And all the mother sparkling through thy tears,

Then didst thou taste a luxury in grief
Which only the unfortunate can know.
But short thy transport, short thy span of life,
And swift thy progress to the darksome tomb.
Thus oft the blossom'd rose, the garden's pride,
The acknowledged sovereign of the gay parterre,
Nipp'd by a frost, a sharp, a killing frost
Its beauties scatter'd, and its fragrance gone,
Torn from its flowery empire, fades forlorn,
Or dies neglected on the barren waste.

Mothers of Britain! highly honour'd names, The muse invokes you by the dearest ties, The ties of nature, to protect your babes; And, in despite of fashion's murderous voice, To yield to them that precious nutriment Your lovely breasts in copious draughts afford. Hath not your God impressively made known His sovereign will, bidding your bosoms swell With the salubrious fluid, when alone Your beauteous offspring needs its milky stores. Nor is the lovely task without reward;

Unless where weakness or disease invade,

It generates to both an healthful state;

Sows the first seeds of sweet affection's bloom, Which, well matured, yields fruit of grateful taste.

And who, that love as mothers ought to love, Can trust their treasures to the hireling's arms; Or how expect from her maternal care, Who, by necessity or avarice urged, Can violate the prime of nature's laws?

Nor burns the fire of true parental love With languid heat, or with less ardent flame, In the firm purpose of a father's breast; Who in his children feels young life renew'd, And seeks their welfare far above his own. With tortur'd bosom and with bleeding heart Zaleucus found the virtuous law transgress'd Which, more than others, he was bound to guard, His son the sad offender; horrid thoughtWhat could a father do? How bid the day No longer burst upon the darken'd sight,