And canst thou, mother, for a moment think that we, thy children,
when old age shall shed its blanching honours on thy weary head, could
from our best of duties ever shrink ? Sooner the sun from his bright sphere
shall 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 I Where'er our steps may roam, o'er smiling plains, or wastes with-
out a tree, still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, and paint the
pleasures of thy peaceful home ; while duty bids us all thy griefs assuage,
and smoothe the pillow of thy sinking age.
