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Oh, to be brought to Jesus' feet,
Though sorrows fix me there,
Is still a privilege; and sweet
Though sighs and tears its language be,
An earthly mind, a faithless heart,
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.
[Winchelsea, Aug. 1819.]
HERE rest, my Love, and let the pencil's art
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.
And o'er thee bends-her kindling eye
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,
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
God be thy portion, God thy guide,
Thine be the faith-it must be tried
HAPPY, 'mid nought but happiness,