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“ OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF GOD."

In stature perfect and with every gift
Which God would on his favourite work bestow,
Did our great Parent his pure form uplift,
And

sprang from earth, the Lord of all below.

But Adam fell before a child was born,
And want and weakness with his fall began ;
So his first offspring was a thing forlorn,
In human shape, without the strength of man :

So, Heaven has doom'd that all of Adam's race, Naked and helpless, shall their course begin, E'en at their birth confess their need of grace, And weeping, wail the penalty of sin.

Yet sure the babe is in the cradle blest,
Since God himself a baby deign'd to be,
And slept upon a mortal mother's breast,
And steep'd in baby tears—his Deity.

O sleep, sweet infant, for we all must sleep,
And wake like babes, that we may wake with Him,
Who watches still his own from harm to keep,
And o'er them spreads the wings of cherubim.

WRITTEN ON THE FIRST OF NOVEMBER,

1820.

HAIL, dark November ! spurious progeny
Of Phoebus and old Night,—thou sable mourner,
That lead'st the funeral pageant of the year,
Thou Winter's herald, sent before thy lord
To bid the earth prepare for his dread presence,-
I gladly wish thee welcome, for thou wear'st
No flaunting smile to mock pale Melancholy,
Which ever loves its likeness, and derives
From most discomfort, truest consolation.

The world is heartsick, and o’erwearied Nature
Bears, in her lost abandonment, the mark
Of ills expected, and of pleasures past,
And, like a late-repenting prodigal,
Deals out with thrift enforc'd the scant remains
Of lavish'd wealth, sighing to think upon
The riotous days, that left no joy unrified,
No store reserv'd, to comfort

poor

old The tip-toe levity of Spring, flower-deck’d,

age :

VOL. I.

E

And Summer's pride, and Autumn's hospitality
Have eat up all.

And now her festal robes
Are worn to rags,-poor rents of tatter'd state,
Telling a tale of mad, luxurious waste,
Yet not enough to cover nakedness,-
A garb of many hues, and wretched all.
There is a desperate patience in her look,
And straggling smiles, or rather ghosts of smiles,
Display the sadness of her wrinkled visage.
Anon, with gusty rage, she casts away
Her motley weeds, and tears her thin grey locks,
And treads her squalid splendour in the mire;
Then weeps amain to think what she has done,
Doom'd to cold penance in a sheet of snow.

EPIGRAM.

They say Despair has power to kill
With her bleak frown; but I

say

No:
If life did hang upon her will,

Then Hope had perish'd long ago :
Yet still the twain keep up their "barful strife,”
For Hope Love's leman is, Despair his wife.

IN THE MANNER OF A CHILD OF SEVEN

YEARS OLD.

'Tis silly, sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love Like the old age.

Ah! woe betide my bonny bride,

For war is in the land,
And far and wide the foemen ride

With ruthless bloody brand.

Still as a dream the purple beam

Of eve is on the river,
But ghastly bright, at the dead of night,

A blood-red flame will quiver.

Fair in the skies the sun will rise,

As ever sun was seen,
But never again our window pane

Shall back reflect his sheen :

For the warrior stern our cot will burn,

And trample on the bower ; It grew for

of smiles and tears, 'Twill perish in an hour.

years

Those firs were old, our grandsires told,

In their good fathers' days; And my soul it grieves that their needle leaves

Must crackle in the blaze.

Beneath their shade how oft we play'd !

There was our place of wooing :But now we're wed, and peace

is fled, And we shall see their ruin.

In battle plain shall I be slain,

And never would I shrink ; Oh! were that all, what

may

befall To thee, I dare not think.

And our sweet boy, our baby joy.

He 'll for his mother cry,
Till the hot smoke his voice shall choke,

And then my bird will die.

Green are the graves, and thick as waves,

Within our holy ground ;
And here and there, an hillock fair,

An infant's grave is found.

Our fathers died, their whole fireside

Is laid in peace together,
But, vile as stones, our bleaching bones

Must brave the wind and weather.

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