WRITTEN SOON AFTER THE PRECEDING POEM Thou should'st have longer liv'd, and to the grave Have peacefully gone down in full old age! Thy children would have tended thy gray hairs. We might have sat, as we have often done, By our fireside, and talk'd whole nights away, Old times, old friends, and old events recalling; With many a circumstance, of trivial note, To memory dear, and of importance grown. How shall we tell them in a stranger's ear? A wayward son ofttimes was I to thee; And yet, in all our little bickerings, Domestic jars, there was, I know not what, Of tender feeling, that were ill exchang'd For this world's chilling friendships, and their smiles Familiar, whom the heart calls strangers still. A heavy lot hath he, most wretched man! Who lives the last of all his family. He looks around him, and his eye discerns The face of the stranger, and his heart is sick. Man of the world, what canst thou do for him? Wealth is a burden, which he could not bear; Mirth a strange crime, the which he dares not act; And wine no cordial, but a bitter cup. For wounds like his Christ is the only cure, And gospel promises are his by right, For these were given to the poor in heart. Go, preach thou to him of a world to come, Where friends shall meet, and know each other's face. Say less than this, and say it to the winds. _October_, 1797. WRITTEN ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1797 I am a widow'd thing, now thou art gone! Now thou art gone, my own familiar friend, Companion, sister, help-mate, counsellor! Alas! that honour'd mind, whose sweet reproof And meekest wisdom in times past have smooth'd The unfilial harshness of my foolish speech, And made me loving to my parents old, (Why is this so, ah God! why is this so?) That honour'd mind become a fearful blank, Her senses lock'd up, and herself kept out From human sight or converse, while so many Of the foolish sort are left to roam at large, Doing all acts of folly, and sin, and shame? Thy paths are mystery!