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FILIAL PIETY.

THERE are few virtues more amiable in young people than filial piety; nor can any thing be more graceful or natural, than the return of a fond attachment to those who not only gave us birth, but afterwards cherished us with the tenderest care. Some of our most eminent characters have been distinguished for this quality; and it does honour to the female sex to remark, that many great men seem to owe their excellence in different departments, chiefly to the culture of their talents in early life, by the solicitude and penetration of their mothers.

Sir William Jones is a striking instance of the admirable effects of maternal care. No doubt can be entertained, that, under whatever tuition his youth had been spent, his natural abilities would have raised him to distinction; but I think it may be questioned, whether the high degree to which his love of knowledge and virtue attained, was not the fruit of the early impressions and example of his honoured mother; who gave up every other pursuit and inclination, to conform herself to that plan of life that should best promote his education. It was impossible not to fix his affections on her, who had watched over him in sickness, instructed his infancy, and so blended delight with her lessons, that they formed the principal amusement of his vacations. To imitate those we love is easy, if not unavoidable;

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and he who passes the first years of his life in the society of an amiable and agreeable woman, can hardly fail to acquire virtuous habits.

Powerful as these impressions are, they are sometimes suppressed by an intercourse with the world, though it is often seen that even the contamination of profligate associates cannot eradicate them.

Colonel Gardiner was educated under the auspices. of a mother and an aunt remarkable for their piety. During a course of years he slighted their precepts, became the hero of a dissipated set of young men, derided religion, and professed the grossest libertinism. But under this disguise of hilarity and satisfaction, he endured the poignant agonies of remorse and self-reproach; as he was all the time acting against the convictions of conscience, and the impressions of those principles he had imbibed in the cradle, which, with his utmost efforts, he could only stifle, but could never discard from his bosom.

In this distressing situation he was arrested in the midst of his vicious career, by the awful warning of a supernatural appearance, probably heightened by his heated imagination, that was continually accusing him of deviating from the known path of duty. He no longer dared to oppose the monitor within his breast, but became from that moment an altered character. He soon afterwards invited his libertine companions to dine with him, and, with magnanimous resolution, frankly told them, that he was determined to adopt a new course of life, and advised them to do the same. Some derided

him, and endeavoured to parry his arguments with profane jests the wiser part of the company applauded his design, though they wanted courage to follow his example. He therefore took a final leave of them, and was ever afterwards as eminent for virtue as he had been distinguished for immorality.

Hayley, the poet, suffered from a disease in his childhood, that not only threatened his life, but impaired the faculties of his mind; and he attributes the preservation of both, under Providence, to the unwearied care and tenderness of his mother.

Cowper, the author of the admirable poem called the Task, has celebrated the virtues and parental influence of his mother, in such a pleasing manner, in a copy of verses written on receiving her picture many years after her death, as a present from a friend, that I shall make no apology for concluding my remarks on this subject with large extracts from it.

"Oh that those lips had language! life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same that oft in childhood solac'd me;

Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say,

Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes,
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,

The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim,
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
"Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
Oh, welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And whilst that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief.
Shall sleep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.

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"My mother, when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch, even then, life's journey just begun. Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss. Ah that maternal smile, it answers, yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore the slow away, And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting sound shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, And disappointed still, was still deceiv'd.

By disappointment every day beguil'd,
Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot,
But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.

"Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more,

Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor;
And where the gard'ner, Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap.
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call'd the past'ral house our own.
Short-lived possession, but the record fair,
That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effac'd,
A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties e'er I left my home,
The buiscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragant waters on my cheeks bestow'd,
By thy own hand, till fresh they shown and glow'd:
All this, and, more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks
That humour interpos'd too often makes.
All this still legible in Mem'rys page,
And still to be so, to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee, as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorn'd in heav'n, though little notic'd here.