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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:
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;
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.
[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,
TO E. R. C.
THE MERRIEST OF BABES.
THREE things alone the world defy;
Over three things it hath no power ;
In trial's darkest hour.
Dear boy, the first is all thy own!
Thy careless, sinless glee
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,
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
By which the world may be defied:
HAPPY, 'mid nought but happiness,
The new-made beings stood :