Ah, that maternal smile! it answers ‘Yes,’
  I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
  I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
  And, turning from my nursery window, drew
  A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! 
  But was it such?  It was:  where thou art gone
  Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
  May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
  The parting word shall pass my lips no more! 
  Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
  Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
  What ardently I wished I long believed,
  And, disappointed still, was still deceived,
  By expectation every day beguiled,
  Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
  Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
  Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
  I learnt at last submission to my lot,
  But, though I less deplored thee, ne’er forgot.

  Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more: 
  Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
  And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
  Drew me to school along the public way,
  Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped
  In scarlet, mantle warm, and velvet-capped,
  ’Tis now become a history little known
  That once we called the pastoral house our own. 
  Short-lived possession!  But the record fair
  That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there,
  Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
  A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
  Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
  That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
  Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
  The biscuit or confectionary plum;
  The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
  By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;
  All this, and, more endearing still than all,
  Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
  Ne’er roughened by those cataracts and breaks
  That humour interposed too often makes;
  All this, still legible on memory’s page,
  And still to be so to my latest age,
  Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
  Such honours to thee as my numbers may,
  Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
  Not scorned in heaven though little noticed here.

  Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours
  When, playing with thy vesture’s tissued flowers,
  The violet, the pink, the jessamine,
  I pricked them into paper with a pin
  (And thou wast happier than myself the while,
  Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile),
  Could those few pleasant days again appear,
  Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? 
  I would not trust my heart—­the dear delight
  Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 
  But no—­what here we call our life is such,
  So little to be loved, and thou so much,
  That I should ill requite thee to constrain
  Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.