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　　WRITTEN A YEAR AFTER THE EVENTS

　　Alas! how am I chang'd! Where be the tears,

　　The sobs, and forc'd suspensions of the breath,

　　And all the dull desertions of the heart,

　　With which I hung o'er my dead mother's corse?

　　Where be the blest subsidings of the storm

　　Within, the sweet resignedness of hope

　　Drawn heavenward, and strength of filial love

　　In which I bow'd me to my father's will?

　　My God, and my Redeemer! keep not thou

　　My soul in brute and sensual thanklessness

　　Seal'd up; oblivious ever of that dear grace,

　　And health restor'd to my long-loved friend,

　　Long-lov'd, and worthy known. Thou didst not leave

　　Her soul in death! O leave not now, my Lord,

　　Thy servants in far worse, in spiritual death!

　　And darkness blacker than those feared shadows

　　Of the valley all must tread. Lend us thy balms,

　　Thou dear Physician of the sin-sick soul,

　　And heal our cleansed bosoms of the wounds

　　With which the world has pierc'd us thro' and thro'.

　　Give us new flesh, new birth. Elect of heav'n

　　May we become; in thine election sure

　　Contain'd, and to one purpose stedfast drawn,

　　Our soul's salvation!

　　Thou, and I, dear friend,

　　With filial recognition sweet, shall know

　　One day the face of our dear mother in heaven;

　　And her remember'd looks of love shall greet

　　With looks of answering love; her placid smiles

　　Meet with a smile as placid, and her hand

　　With drops of fondness wet, nor fear repulse.

　　Be witness for me, Lord, I do not ask

　　Those days of vanity to return again

　　(Nor fitting me to ask, nor thee to give),

　　Vain loves and wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid,

　　Child of the dust as I am, who so long

　　My captive heart steep'd in idolatry

　　And creature-loves. Forgive me, O my Maker!

　　If in a mood of grief I sin almost

　　In sometimes brooding on the days long past,

　　And from the grave of time wishing them back,

　　Days of a mother's fondness to her child,

　　Her little one.

　　O where be now those sports,

　　And infant play-games? where the joyous troops

　　Of children, and the haunts I did so love?

　　O my companions, O ye loved names

　　Of friend or playmate dear; gone are ye now;

　　Gone diverse ways; to honour and credit some,

　　And some, I fear, to ignominy and shame!

　　I only am left, with unavailing grief

　　To mourn one parent dead, and see one live

　　Of all life's joys bereft and desolate:

　　Am left with a few friends, and one, above

　　The rest, found faithful in a length of years,

　　Contented as I may, to bear me on

　　To the not unpeaceful evening of a day

　　Made black by morning storms!

　　September, 1797. The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 4