With his holy vestments dight, And all his past career Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, And in his cell, when death drew near, To the East with praise he turned, "I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell, Vainly I left my angel's sphere, Vain was thy dream of many a year. Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped; Creation's chorus stopped! "Go back and praise again The early way while I remain. "With that weak voice of our disdain, Take up Creation's pausing strain. "Back to the cell and poor employ; Theocrite grew old at home; One vanished as the other died; 426 THE CHIMNEY SWEEP. THE CHIMNEY SWEEP. SWEEP ho! Sweep ho! He trudges on through sleet and snow. Could'st thou see thy little son! He trudges on through sleet and snow. Faithfully it now shall be, But, soon spent, down droppeth he. Very strange, but true, things seem. Led by a fantastic power Which sets by the present hour, Creeps he to a little bed, Pillows there his aching head, And, poor thing! he does not know There he lay long years ago! FROM EDWIN THE FAIR. — Taylor. THE wind, when first he rose and went abroad A HOME SONNET.- Hood. THE world is with me, and its many cares The shades of former and of future years Foreboding fancies and prophetic tears, Quelling a spirit that was once elate. Heavens! what a wilderness the earth appears, Where youth, and mirth, and health, are out of date! 428 TO A FRIEND AFTER THE LOSS OF A CHILD. But no a laugh of innocence and joy And, gladly turning from the world's annoy, And bless, internally, the merry boy FROM HOURS WITH THE MUSES.-J. C. Prince. SABBATH! thou art my Ararat of life, TO A FRIEND AFTER THE LOSS OF A CHILD. WHEN on my ear your loss was knelled, Which once had quenched my bitter thirst; And I was fain to bear to you A portion of its mild relief, That it might be as cooling dew To steal some fever from your grief After our child's untroubled breath Up to the Father took its way, And on our home the shade of death And friends came round with us to weep Was told to us by one we love. They, in the valley's sheltering care, Soon crop their meadow's tender prime, And when the sod grows brown and bare, The shepherd strives to make them climb Το any shelves of pasture green That hang along the mountain side, Where grass and flowers together lean, And down through mists the sunbeams glide. But nought can lure the timid thing Till in his arms their lambs he takes, And in those pastures lifted fair, More dewy soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed. This parable, by nature breathed, |