quote · Legacy record

The voice of nature, yea, the voice of God Commands to honour those that gave us birth,— Even her, from whose supporting bosom flowed By far the sweetest stream that flows on earth; Whose tongue of kindness never knew a dearth Of soothing words that could our griefs allay— Even him who listened to our prattling mirth, Who early taught our infant lips to pray, And led our tottering steps to walk in wisdom’s way: A parent is indeed a tender friend, And, if once lost, we never more shall find A bosom that so tremblingly can blend Its feelings with our own congenial mind; Our lips may speak their anguish to the wind That hurries heedlessly and wildly by— Our hearts, to lonely agony consigned, May thirst without relief—for no reply Comes from their mouldering breasts, that in their graves lie. And then we pause to think—alas! how late! Of deeds that wrung a parent’s heart with pain; And oh! could we but open death’s dark gate, And lead them back into the world again— Oh! but once more to see their face!—’tis vain! Once more to hear their voice!—’tis sweetly driven Across our fancy, and expires,—and then We wish ourselves away—away to heaven, To weep upon their breast, and there to be forgiven.

The voice of nature, yea, the voice of God Commands to honour those that gave us birth,— Even her, from whose supporting bosom flowed By far the sweetest stream that flows on earth; Whose tongue of kindness never knew a dearth Of soothing words that could our griefs allay— Even him who listened to our prattling mirth, Who early taught our infant lips to pray, And led our tottering steps to walk in wisdom’s way: A parent is indeed a tender friend, And, if once lost, we never more shall find A bosom that so tremblingly can blend Its feelings with our own congenial mind; Our lips may speak their anguish to the wind That hurries heedlessly and wildly by— Our hearts, to lonely agony consigned, May thirst without relief—for no reply Comes from their mouldering breasts, that in their graves lie. And then we pause to think—alas! how late! Of deeds that wrung a parent’s heart with pain; And oh! could we but open death’s dark gate, And lead them back into the world again— Oh! but once more to see their face!—’tis vain! Once more to hear their voice!—’tis sweetly driven Across our fancy, and expires,—and then We wish ourselves away—away to heaven, To weep upon their breast, and there to be forgiven.

In print by 1888 AD · industrial

Recorded in a printed collection by this date; the original date of these words is still unknown.