God from his throne look'd down to bless

The work he saw was good,

And pleased, the not yet mortals bade

People the Eden he had made

With happy beings-so He will'd—

Who, had not man rebell'd,

Should the new world with joy have fill'd,

And peaceful empire held

O'er countless forms of varied life,

Deathless and innocent of strife.

Dear, then, had been the painless birth;

For oh, what joy to be

The mother of a child of earth

From taint or danger free,

And add one happy being more
To none but happy ones before!

Unchanged the law, how the dread curse On sinning Woman fell,

The pangs that mothers feel, and worse,

Their aching hearts may tell ;

In penal sorrow doom'd to bear,
Frail as its parent, sorrow's heir.

But is the blessing quite withdrawn?

No-unto us is given

A Son, a Child of Woman born,

Yet Heir and Lord of Heaven,

Through whom our infant race shall rise,

And fill a better Paradise.

O thou fond, tender, suffering one,

Ev'n in thy hour of woe,

Rejoice to bear another son,

To toil awhile below

Life's little chequer'd day, then die

To put on immortality.

There's joy upon this blighted earth,

For babe and mother joy;

The happy days of infant mirth,

The raptures of the boy:

Nor can the world a bliss impart,

Like that which warms a mother's heart.

1822.

Is it not said, that from the Lord
These precious boons descend?

The fruit of love is His reward,

And love His gifts intend.

His gifts are good, His laws are wise:
These are not "blessings in disguise."

TO A SISTER ON HER BIRTHDAY.

DECEMBER! thou art old and hoar;

Thy voice is rough, thy hand is cold:

The blood at every closing pore

Shrinks from thy touch. Yet, hoar and old

G

Though thou appear,

That form severe

Seems the fresh hue of health to wear.

Earth, now in Winter's fleecy dress,

The kind severity shall bless

That laid her forests bare.

Dear Emma, what is Winter's snow, Or what, affliction's keener storm? If the young mind with action glow, If all within the heart be warm,

We'll bravely meet

The arrowy sleet,

And firmly tread the iron stream.

Secured beneath the frozen soil,

The hopes, the joys for which we toil, Wait but the vernal beam.

Whatever sign may rule our sky,

As still revolves the order'd year,

'Tis the same sun that rolls on high,

Felt when unseen, in Winter near;

While Goodness still,

With matchless skill,

To every month its task assigns:
November pours her chilly rains,
Or laughing May inspires the veins,
While Heaven around her shines.

What though of dark December born,

My sister! Thou shalt one day know,

How all the blasts that chill thy morn,

The mist, the tempest, and the snow,
Severely kind,

Have braced thy mind,

And clear'd the world's infectious air;
Preparing thee for brighter skies,

The cloudless suns of Paradise :

There is no winter there.

Dec. 5, 1811.