Page:The works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld volume 1.djvu/285

Rh Come, reap thy rich inheritance of love! Bask in the fondness of a Mother's eye! Nor wit nor eloquence her heart shall move Like the first accents of thy feeble cry. Haste, little captive, burst thy prison doors! Launch on the living world, and spring to light! Nature for thee displays her various stores, Opens her thousand inlets of delight. If charmed verse or muttered prayers had power, With favouring spells to speed thee on thy way, Anxious I 'd bid my beads each passing hour, Till thy wished smile thy mother's pangs o'erpay.