Relic! I will not bow to thee, nor worship!
Yet, treasure as thou art, remembrancer
Of sunny days, that ever haunt my dreams.
When thy brown felloes as a task I twirl'd.
And sung my ditties, ere the Farm receiv'd
My vagrant foot, and with its liberty
And all its cheerful buds and opening flow'r?
Had taught my heart to wander.—
Relic of affection, come;
Thou shalt a moral teach to me and mine.
The hand that wore thee smooth is cold, and spins
No more. Debility press'd hard around
The seat of life, and terrors fill'd her brain;
Nor causeless terrors: Giants grim and bold.
Three mighty ones she fear'd to meet; they came—
Winter, Old Age, and Poverty, all came:
The last had dropp'd his club, yet fancy made
Him formidable; and when Death beheld
Her tribulation, he fulfill'd his task,
And to her trembling hand and heart, at once.
Cried, ' Spin no more!' Thou then wert left half fill'd
With this soft downy fleece, such as she wound
Through all her days ! She who could spin so well!
Half fill'd wert thou, half finish'd when she died.
Half finish'd! 'tis the motto of the world!
We spin vain threads, and dream, and strive, and die,
With sillier things than Spindles in our hands.
Then feeling, as I do, resistlessly,
The bias set upon my soul for verse.
Oh ! should Old Age still find my brain at work,
And Death, o'er some poor fragment striding, cry,
"Hold! spin no more ;" grant Heav'n, that purity
Of thought and texture may assimilate
That fragment unto thee, in usefulness.
In strength, and snowy innocence. Then shall
The village school-mistress shine brighter through
The exit of her boy ; and both shall live.
And virtue triumph too, and virtue's tears,
Like Heav'n's pure blessings, fall upon her grave.