"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, 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, O sleep, sweet infant, for we all must sleep, And o'er them spreads the wings of cherubim. WRITTEN ON THE FIRST OF NOVEMBER, 1820. HAIL, dark November! spurious progeny The world is heartsick, and o'erwearied Nature 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 unrifled, age: The tip-toe levity of Spring, flower-deck'd, 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, And straggling smiles, or rather ghosts of smiles, Her motley weeds, and tears her thin grey locks, 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,” IN THE MANNER OF A CHILD OF SEVEN YEARS OLD. "Tis silly, sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love AH! woe betide my bonny bride, For war is in the land, And far and wide the foemen ride Still as a dream the purple beam But ghastly bright, at the dead of night, Fair in the skies the sun will rise, But never again our window pane For the warrior stern our cot will burn, It And trample on the bower; grew for years of smiles and tears, "Twill perish in an hour. Those firs were old, our grandsires told, 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, In battle plain shall I be slain, 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. |