Oh, to be brought to Jesus' feet,

Though sorrows fix me there,

Is still a privilege; and sweet
The energies of prayer,

Though sighs and tears its language be,
If Christ be nigh, and smile on me.

An earthly mind, a faithless heart,
He sees with pitying eye:

He will not let his grace depart,

But, kind severity!

He takes a hostage of our love,

To draw the parents' hearts above.

There stands our child before the Lord,

In royal vesture drest ;

A victor ere he drew the sword,

Ere he had toil'd, at rest.

No doubts this blessed faith bedim:

We know that Jesus died for him.

Oh, blessed be the hand that gave;

Still blessed when it takes.

Blessed be He who smites to save,

Who heals the heart he breaks.

Perfect and true are all his ways,

Whom heaven adores, and death obeys.

Jan. 1818.

SONNET.

[Winchelsea, Aug. 1819.]

HERE rest, my Love, and let the pencil's art
That arch's lightness, and the mouldering tower,
In just perspective give. 'Tis now the hour
When Memory's softness falls upon the heart,
Like twilight on the landscape. Part by part,
The imaged ruin forms beneath thy hand,
Graceful and true. But wherefore at a stand?

At Time's sepulchral voice does Fancy start?

No: tenderer thoughts rush in. Since thou wert here, How much has intervened of waking bliss!

The lover changed to husband, name more dear,

And three sweet babes have shared the mother's kiss. One sweetest flower expands beneath our eyes, And two are blossoming in Paradise.

TO E. R. C.

THE MERRIEST OF BABES.

THREE things alone the world defy;

Over three things it hath no power;

The rapturous joy of infancy,

The love that lives in woman's eye,

And faith, that gives the victory

In trial's darkest hour.

Dear boy, the first is all thy own!

Thy careless, sinless glee

I well might envy, had I known

No heartfelt joy of deeper tone.
Laugh on-thou shalt not laugh alone:
Who but must laugh with thee?

And o'er thee bends-her kindling eye
With all a mother's fondness beams-

Whose smiles, amid the cares that try

The man, a solid bliss supply,

Above the joys of infancy,

Or boyish fancy's dreams.

The time will come-it must be so

The world shall cloud thy childish bliss:

Yet would thy father joy to know,
Dear child, thy chequer'd lot below,
Should, with no heavier care or woe,

Blend comforts such as his.

Should Heaven thy budding sweetness spare To distant birthdays, all too soon

That mirth must yield to thoughts of care;

For thou the common lot must share.

And be it so our anxious prayer
Invokes no earthly boon.

God be thy portion, God thy guide,
On whom thy parents' hope relies.

Thine be the faith-it must be tried

HAPPY, 'mid nought but happiness,
The new-made beings stood: