On Receipt Of My Mother's Picture

Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smiles I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same.…