To My Son, Age 23, Poem by Anne Hunter

A LIEUTENANT IN THE ARMY, THEN WITH HIS
REGIMENT IN CORSICA, 1793.
O THOU so dear! whose wand'ring star
Leaves sad maternal love to mourn,
Now chain'd to fierce Bellona's car,
Say, does no thought of home return?
Of me, beneath a sky so dark and drear,
Where fortune drives the storm, and sorrow clouds the year?
But rising from the stroke of fate,
I seize the long neglected lyre;
Warm at my heart new hopes dilate,
For thee new wishes they inspire;
The sullen weeds of woe I cast away,
And sweep the sounding chords to hail thy natal day.

Thy boyish years to manhood brought,
Bless'd be the harvest's happy time!
And O, may firm collected thought
With judgment mark thy ripen'd prime!
May fair desert, with smiling fortune, crown
Thy long succeeding years with honour and renown.
If with obscurity to dwell
Be mine in unfrequented bow'rs,
While fancy tunes her airy shell,
While friendship gilds the quiet hours,
Content may well her peaceful calm impart,
And soft affections still twine round my throbbing heart.
While thou, dear object of my care,
Must still the busy world explore,
May thou its smiles propitious share,
Till the gay pageant charms no more;
Then when existence verges to its close,
In friendship, filial love, and tranquil hope repose.