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Show TO MY MOTHER. By HENRY KIRKE WHITE. And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think That we, thy children, when old age shall shed Its blanching honors on thy weary head, Could from our best of duties ever shrink? Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day, To pine in solitude thy life away, Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. Banish the thought! where'er our steps may roam, O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree, And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home; While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age. |