Sonnet on Receiving Some Papers, Written by His Mother, from the Hand of a Friend
Ye blest memorials of a parent's worth,
Whose gentle spirit though in glory shrined,
Even now perchance regards this grovelling earth,
And regulates, unseen, this wayward mind.
O, where a worthy offering may I find,
For that benignant hand, whose friendly zeal,
Such dear deposits to my care consigned—
Or how the sense of gratitude reveal?
To meet the strong emotion that I feel,
For power of language I but vainly seek;
Vainly before the Muse's altar kneel,
Who owns her choicest energies are weak,
To point of grief and joy, that high excess,
Which tears and silence can alone express.
Whose gentle spirit though in glory shrined,
Even now perchance regards this grovelling earth,
And regulates, unseen, this wayward mind.
O, where a worthy offering may I find,
For that benignant hand, whose friendly zeal,
Such dear deposits to my care consigned—
Or how the sense of gratitude reveal?
To meet the strong emotion that I feel,
For power of language I but vainly seek;
Vainly before the Muse's altar kneel,
Who owns her choicest energies are weak,
To point of grief and joy, that high excess,
Which tears and silence can alone express.
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