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When I would tell the playful wit,
With which his radiant eyes are lit;
I only see the soften'd rays,
That fondly beam his Mary's praise.
When I would tell the satire keen,
That pierces dark corruption's scene;
I only hear his stifled breath,
When, hov'ring on the verge of death;
In speechless agony I lay,
By him restor'd to life and day.
Till gratitude's too keen excess
Dissolves in melting tenderness.
With which his radiant eyes are lit;
I only see the soften'd rays,
That fondly beam his Mary's praise.
When I would tell the satire keen,
That pierces dark corruption's scene;
I only hear his stifled breath,
When, hov'ring on the verge of death;
In speechless agony I lay,
By him restor'd to life and day.
Till gratitude's too keen excess
Dissolves in melting tenderness.
Oh! brighter these warm feelings glow'd!
Faster the tide of mem'ry flow'd!
When—vision oft by fancy rear'd—
My father's native home appear'd.
How diff'rent from the blooming bow'rs,
Breathing perfume from sweetest flow'rs,
Faster the tide of mem'ry flow'd!
When—vision oft by fancy rear'd—
My father's native home appear'd.
How diff'rent from the blooming bow'rs,
Breathing perfume from sweetest flow'rs,
